Mission to Daleth IV
by Soledad
Summary: Set in the TOS timeframe. A Starfleet Intelligence unit is forced to use unconventional methods to blow up a ring of the Orion Syndicate. Warning: OCs, adult themes, lots of unpleasant events. This is a very dark and gritty story. STORY COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 01: Astronomy

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** strong R

**Series:** "The Lost Years"

**Star Trek incarnation:** Original Series

**Warnings:** semi non-con, m/m, AU, drug abuse, sexual slavery of some sort. This is not a nice story, so read to your own risk, please.

**Archiving:** Sure, just ask first. I prefer to know where my stuff goes.

**Summary:** an undercover unit of Starfleet Intelligence is forced to use unconventional methods to blow up a ring of the Orion Syndicate on the Daleth trade station.

* * *

**FOREWORD**

This story loosely belongs to my Battlestar Galactica/Original Trek crossover AU-series titled "The Lost Years", which describes the second five-year-mission of Kirk's _Enterprise_. Not many people know, but Gene Roddenberry actually had planned to make a second series with the original cast, and what later became the first movie would have been its pilot.

This story, however, has none of the main canon characters, only a handful of supporting ones. It features a great many OCs, most importantly a well-oiled unit of Starfleet Intelligence, which appears in irregular intervals in the actual series. Basically, this is a complementary story to the 18th adventure of the "Lost Years" series, a story that is titled "Nemesis".

"Mission to Daleth IV" takes place five years before "Nemesis" – this is the year 2269, the 3rd year if the Original Series. The members of the SI unit have been inspired by certain lead characters of the series "SeaQuest" but have completely different backgrounds and personalities here, even different names. I only used the visuals (i.e. the actors). The _dramatis personae_ will be listed after the epilogue, so that readers could have their fun by guessing who are the good guys and who are the bad ones.

The unit had been working on the Daleth station for three years at the beginning of this story. The idea of the Free Agents of the Federation belongs to Sondra Marshak and her co-writer, Myrna Culbreath. I found it in one of the TOS-novels and found it very useful for my series.

In the Romulan name-giving, I followed the lead given in Diane Duane's excellent TOS-novel "The Romulan Way".

* * *

**CHAPTER 01: ASTRONOMY, POLITICS AND SCHEMING**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

The data about the Rigel system and about the classification of planets are taken from "The Words of the Federation" by Shane Johnson – an excellent background book. The name of the tertiary star (Daleth) is my addition, though, and so are its planets and the trade station. T'Sedd, the Federation representative of Rigel V is taken from the same book.

Rigel is an actually existing twin star, 900 light years from Earth, according to the "dtv-Atlas zur Astronomie" by Joachim Hermann.

The Alpha Centauri Concordium of Planets is mentioned by this name in the "Star Fleet Technical Manual" by Franz Joseph. As for the inhabitants, I know "Centaurian" sounds a little awkward, but I wanted to avoid any misunderstandings concerning the Centauri from the B5 universe. I know the first chapter is a little information-heavy, but it is necessary to understand the circumstances, and it will change in the following ones.

And no, the sentient saber-tooth turtles aren't my idea. They are a genuine Roddenberry item™.

* * *

**THE PAST**

Even for the eyes of the unaffected beholder, the Rigel system was one of the most spectacular ones in Federation space. A quadralupe star system, the two main stars of which – a blue-white super giant and a somewhat smaller blue-white giant – supported a total of thirteen planets, six of which were inhabited. This remarkable number of Class M worlds could be attributed to the system's extensive habitable orbital zone and to the Hakel radiation belt that surrounded the system's primary and shielded the planets from the lethal doses of radiation emitted by the super giant.

The Rigel system was one of the main strongholds and one of the most vulnerable spots of the Federation, due to the various peoples that lived on its habitable planets.

Rigel II and Rigel IV, sometimes referred to as the Rigel Colonies, were settled by Terran colonists at the end of the 21st century. It was the first great expansion of humans into known space – or into less known space in this case, as they had not yet been capable of building huge colonization ships at that time, especially not warp-capable ones. There were, after all, 900 light years between the Sol- and the Rigel systems. But they had already had a working alliance with the Alpha Centauri Concordium of Planets, a bond of planets who had had a long tradition in colonization, and the Centaurians willingly lent them a hand in ferrying their people to their new homes.

In the middle of the 23rd century the Rigel Colonies were major Federation worlds with a combined population of more than eight billion. Mostly humans, but many Centaurians, Vulcans or Tellarites lived among them as well. The two Colonies were working with united efforts on the terraforming of Rigel III and hoped to have succeeded by the beginning of the 24th century.

Rigel V. was populated by two different intelligent species. The ingenious people, some sort of sentient saber-tooth turtles, lived on an isolated continent of the size of Australia, and their numbers had been slowly but steadily dwindling for at least a thousand standard years. The main continents belonged to a vulcanoid population of 1.3 billion. These vulcanoids, called generally Rigelians, had immigrated to Rigel V approximately six thousand years earlier and were believed to be the result of Vulcan's first huge colonization wave. They still had the great physical similarity with the actual Vulcans, but as they had left their planet of origin way before Surak's Reformation, they have developed a culture of their own that was about as different from Vulcan's as the Romulans' was. Nevertheless, Rigel V had been a member of the Federation since 2184, when the Rigel Accords had been signed into law.

Rigel VI and Rigel VII were a double planet system in a trojan orbit. Rigel VI was a major trade centre that coordinated much of the cargo transportation that took place between the Rigel system and other Federation worlds and even had large orbital shipyards for the building of transport tugs and containers. The government of Rigel VI was also in charge of the surveillance stations in orbit of their twin world.

That was more than necessary, as Rigel VII, a rather large Class M world, was widely inhabited by a belligerent race of seven-foot-tall Neanderthal-like humanoids called the Kalar. Technologically quite primitive, the Kalar rated a D-plus on the Richter Scale of Culture and consequently hostile and dangerous. Visiting Rigel VII was therefore forbidden for all Federation races, due to the Prime Directive. Which meant, of course, that the Federation worlds in the Rigel system had to ensure that no _other_ races interfered with the natural development of the Kalar either.

And _that_ was not an easy task, considering the immediate neighbourhood: Rigel VIII.

Also referred to as Orion, this particular world supported a native humanoid population of aggressive, yellow-skinned warriors and traders that numbered approximately 4.3 billion. On an isolated southern continent of the planet, however, another sentient species had developed, independently from the main population: a race of green-skinned savages that barely reached the level of coherent speech when found and enslaved by the Alpha race. The two races never intermarried, but the green savages were encouraged to breed among themselves, mostly because there was a great demand for the sensual and aggressive female dancers on the slave market, and the scaled males were excellent workers. Their population reached the number of 1.1 billion in the 23rd century.

After having developed (or stolen – this detail was never cleared to satisfaction) the capacity for interstellar travel, the Alpha race colonized the two planets of Rigel's blue giant secondary star and went on to form a pirate empire. That made them a very uncomfortable neighbourhood, especially because of the dispute about the ownership of Rigel XII.

This Class G desert planet was barely able to support humanoid life, due to its high gravity and distance from its sun. However, its large deposits of raw dilithium had made it invaluable to the Federation, which operated a small mining colony on the planet's surface. A vast, fully automated underground dilithium refining facility ran continually in order to supply the ever-increasing needs of the Federation.

And therein lay the problem. As T'Sedd, the representative of Rigel V in the Federation Council put it, it was easier to take the freshly killed prey of a hungry _rukh_ than to protect resources of extreme value from the pirates of Orion. The _hegemon_s of the Oligarchy considered everything they could lay their hand on their property and were not particularly picky in their methods.

Thus, to avoid an open conflict over Rigel XII, Daleth Station was built, designed to be a place of trade and diplomatic efforts, under the protection of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets, but under civilian leadership. It was seen as an independent colony, allied to the Federation but not officially a part of it, with its own civilian constabulary and security forces and space patrols. Of course, practically it was an extended arm of Rigel VI, and the majority of its population of about 14,000 came from the Federation worlds of the Rigel system – or from other Federation worlds – but it had a strong Orion presence as well.

One that certain Federation officials – especially among the higher ranks of Starfleet – had begun to find a little too strong. It was not really a secret, after all, that the _Free Merchants' Guild_ was, in fact, just the legal guise of the Orion Syndicate. Everyone knew that – but nobody could find any proof. At least not anyone who lived to tell the tale, that is.

Daleth Station had been built in stationary orbit of Daleth IV, the thirteenth planet of the Rigel system – and the only one belonging to the system's tertiary star, a small, weak sun called Daleth. The name Daleth IV wasn't entirely accurate, as the other three planetoids were, technically, no more than small moons in erratic orbits, thorn away from Rigel XII by Daleth's gravitation. But at the time when the astrophysicists realized their error, the name had already been established.

Daleth IV itself was a Class C planet, Venus Solis not unlike, with an iron/silicate surface, a reducing, dense atmosphere and a surface temperature so high that even automatic mining provided serious hindrances. But it had strategic importance for both trading and surveillance purposes. Both sides used the station to spy on each other, to set up meetings with each other and with third parties, and to make business, in- and outside the boundaries of legality. This strategic importance also made it the best place to plan a hard blow against the Syndicate – assuming, the Federation operatives lived long enough to work out how to do it.

People were usually surprised, though, when first confronted with the ethereal beauty of Daleth Station. Designed by T'Rall of Vulcan and influenced by Andorian architecture, it contained three concentric rings and a huge, domed central section in the middle, all made of pale blue, transparent metal. The rings were connected by diagonal corridors that rayed out from the central section like the spokes of a gigantic wheel – twelve of them. The docking ports for smaller starships, like Class I Fleet scouts or civilian freighters, were all around the outer ring, where these corridors joined the docking ring, while bigger ships had to remain in orbit and their crew used shuttles or transporters to visit the station.

The middle ring was the trading, shopping and entertaining mall of the station, while the smallest one served as habitat area for the permanent inhabitants. Finally, in the central section were the generators that kept the station running, the conference rooms for diplomatic issues, the weapons lockers for station security, the computer core and other most important systems without which the station would have been inoperable. The command and control room of the station was called Operations. It was manned by a civilian crew, hand-picked by the station leader who bore the official title of Colony Administrator (a friendly but highly efficient vulcanoid Rigelian named Thrae) and better protected than a small Federation Starbase.

* * *

**THE PRESENT **

The battered civilian freighter _Bianchi_, registered to a dubious trader from Rigel IV of the name of Cyrano Jones, was directed to Docking Port Six by Operations upon its arrival. The captain of that ship, a tall, middle-aged human of considerable girth and with a greying beard (well, at least he _looked_ human, though one could never know at Daleth Station), was no stranger to the customs officers. They all knew him to be a harmless little smuggler who tried to cut out a meagre existence for himself by trading in _kivas_ and _trillium_ mostly – and, basically, in everything he could get his hands on. They didn't give him any trouble as long as he didn't cause any in exchange. He was a small fish, compared with the executives of the Orion Syndicate, not worth bothering.

"Captain Vierchi," the customs clerk in duty, a balding man in his early fifties, looked up at him with a genuine smile, "back already? Have you anything to declare?"

"Just the usual," Vierchi handed the clerk the data chip with his customs declaration. "How are things at Daleth Station?"

The clerk checked his declaration ad found it correct…more or less, as usual. "Same old, same old," he replied with a shrug and gave Vierchi back the data chip. "Oh, and by the way, your… associate has arrived two weeks ago."

"My _associate_?" Vierchi replied blandly. The clerk shrugged again, slight disgust on his usually neutral face.

"Mr. Cyrano Jones, free merchant extraordinaire. Among other things."

Vierchi sighed. "And I _so_ hoped they would keep him on K-7 for a while! I guess I was too optimistic."

"Well, according to his log he did come here directly from K-7," the clerk said. "Mr. Lurry, the administrator of that station, sent us a memo right after Mr. Jones had filed his direction upon departure. Do you want a copy?"

Vierchi eyed him suspiciously. "What would that cost me?"

"Not much," the clerk said. "All you have to do is to get me some Antarean brandy. I mean the real thing, not the fake stuff they sell here. I'll even pay the price. I just want to taste the real item for a change."

Vierchi thought about his next planner route – and nodded. Yes, he could do it. It would take him slightly off curse, but not so much that it would disturb his carefully constructed timetable. And keeping a good relationship with station personnel was important for people like him.

"You have a deal," he said. "But it'll take a few weeks."

"It doesn't matter," the clerk handed him another data chip. "I don't need it before my daughter's eighteenth birthday, in three month's time. Here, you might find this useful. I'll never understand how you can work for someone like Cyrano Jones."

"Believe me, I didn't choose to," Vierchi replied with a sour face. "But when I lost my own ship, with everything else I had, because my drinking and gambling had brought me in debt I couldn't pay back, he was the only one who gave me a chance. I don't like him any more than you do, but the unpleasant fact is – I owe him my whole existence. Sure, he takes sixty per cent of all my profits, assuming I make any, but it's still better than prison."

The clerk nodded in sympathy. This was not the first similar story he had heard during his long career in administrative service, and like most of his colleagues, he was rather fond of the unlucky little smuggler.

"Well, good luck then," he said. "Do you need any repairs done on that rustpot you call a ship?"

"When do I not?" Vierchi asked back with a tired grin.

The clerk checked the duty roster of the maintenance crews. "Weeell, this seems to be your lucky day," he said. "Ms. Velez is on duty today, and she likes you, for some strange reason."

They both laughed. The legendary hatred of Chief Technician Nina Velez towards the whole male population of the universe was the constant subject of not always well-meant jokes. Vierchi supposed that it had to do something with her heritage – she was half-Klingon, after all, and no data about her Klingon parent could be found _anywhere_ – and was as surprised as everyone when she began to loosen up around him.

"In that case," he said to the clerk, "I should maybe seek her out, before any more important assignments come up."

"That is probably a good idea," the clerk agreed.

Vierchi took his leave from the clerk and walked to the second ring, where the maintenance crews had their small emergency offices. It took him only a few minutes to find Emergency Office #4 and the person he was looking for. The tall woman standing in front of a comm panel and checking the work roster wore the bright orange coverall of the station's technicians. However, the sleeves of said coverall had been removed, most likely to give more room her broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms. A heavy tool-belt encircled her trim hips, but Vierchi had no doubt that there was at least one weapon hidden among the tools.

The delicately ridged, high forehead, framed by an unruly mass of chestnut curls, gave her lovely face an exotic look, but her piercing blue, almost colourless eyes revealed a keen, calculating mind. As always, Vierchi was glad that she considered him a friend – she could be a deadly enemy if provoked. He had seen her beating men twice of her size to bloody pulp, without breaking a sweat.

Upon seeing her visitor, Nina Velez' face lit up in delight.

"Vierchi, you old _targ_!" she cried out affectionately and gave him a bear hug that almost knackered a few of his ribs. "You are back early," she added in a considerably lower voice, almost a whisper, resting her face on his shoulder for cover.

Vierchi groaned in protest. "Nina, you'll be the death of me one of these days! Have mercy with an old man." Then he lowered his voice, too. "I had no other choice. Couldn't risk to go to K-7, after what happened there."

Nina Velez made a snort of agreement. "We've heard about it. Would it disturb our plans here?"

"Nah, I don't think so. It was an isolated incident, even though an unfortunate one," Vierchi raised his voice again, handing the half-Klingon woman a PADD. "Do you think you could take a look at my ship? The cargo transporter has problems rematerializing things."

Velez checked the list, reading between the lines what she needed to know. "Strange. I've checked that transporter of yours last time and it was all right."

Vierchi shrugged. "It's a fifteen-year-old piece of machinery, Nina. It breaks down frequently. And I can' afford a better one."

"All right, I'll see what I can do," Velez slapped him on the back in a friendly manner, nearly breaking one of his shoulder blades. "Go and look after your business, and I'll look after your ship. Luckily for you, I haven't got any urgent assignments right now."

Vierchi nodded in agreement. It was of utmost importance that he met his contacts and exchanged vital information with them.

"Have you any idea where I could find Mr. Sanchez?" he asked loudly. "He promised me to find me a First Mate I could actually pay. It's becoming difficult to fly the _Bianchi_ alone, with all those problems surfacing in the most inconvenient moments."

Velez snorted in disgust. "In _S'Bysh's Bar_, where else? That _P'takh_ sits there all day, drooling over the green savage dancers. Men," she added in her usual bitchy manner.

"Thanks," Vierchi yawned; he had had a long flight and wasn't exaggerating when he said it was becoming difficult alone. "I'll be on my way, then. See you later."

* * *

_S'Bysh's Bar_ was on the almost completely opposite side of the second ring – a large establishment that even had a theatre stage to it, where the various exotic dancers performed. Most of them were female, green savages from Orion, who – as someone had once put – could overcome the senses of any man like an irresistible hunger attack. But there were others, too, no lesser attractive ones.

When Vierchi entered the bar, a young, male _Mo'ari_ dancer from Alpha Centauri IV, easily recognizable due his scarlet eyes and the small, horn-like ridges along his temples, was swaying to the slow, throbbing rhythm of Orion flutes like a beautiful and deadly cobra. His smooth, mahogany-coloured body was naked, save a small loincloth of some golden stuff, tiny golden bells were attached to his nipple rings, and a topaz-like jewel glittered in his navel. Every sway and twist of that perfect, nude body was designed to invoke a response from the audience – a base and animalistic one, and according to the hunger in those watching eyes, the dancer was eminently successful.

This was not a success without grave danger, however, as his wasn't the only influence on the customers here. The experienced nose of Vierchi could separate the vapours of at least three or four different drugs, all considered illegal on a hundred Federation (or other) worlds, half a dozen sorts of smuggled alcoholic beverages from Romulan ale to Aldebaran whiskey, and he could hear the faint groans from the back rooms (separated by thin curtains only), the unmistakable reaction to the use of cardiac stimulators.

_S'Bysh's Bar_ was the absolute bottom of the gutter on Daleth Station – which made it the ideal place for Vierchi's purposes. The noise (and the state most of the customers were in all the time) made listening devices practically useless, and it was a hard thing to spy on someone who made his business in plain view.

Vierchi gave his eyes a moment to adjust, looking around the intoxicated crowd. It took him less than a minute to find the person he wanted to speak, and he crossed the bar, aiming to the table near the stage. The table of Diego Sanchez, a shady agent, who dealt in exotic dancers mostly, but was occasionally willing to find other employees for his customers, if there was a demand.

The man was in his mid-thirties, well-built, and he could have been considered handsome, had he not given a certain… oily impression. Vierchi couldn't find a word that would be more matching. Whether that impression came from the too-brilliant hair gel Sanchez preferred, from the fact that the man was never clean-shaved, or from that nasty, unpleasant smile practically plastered on his face all the time, Vierchi couldn't decide. But the man was… well, he was _oily_.

Sanchez wasn't sitting alone. He was accompanied by another _Mo'ari_ male, an elder, heavier built version of the exotic dancer. The two bald, dark-skinned, red-eyed men looked so much alike that they simply _had_ to be related. Father and son, perhaps. Or brothers, with a considerable age difference. It made sense, actually. The _Mo'ari_ guarded the young boys that worked as dancers on alien words jealously. Contrary to common belief, the boys were _not_ on sale, just their dancing skills.

Unfortunately, many other species seemed unable to understand the difference. Especially not the outrageously rich Orion _potentat_es that lusted as much after beautiful young boys as they lusted after voluptuous, savage women. No wonder the older _Mo'ari_ was sitting there, watching the young dancer like a hawk, ready to jump to his defence any moment.

Vierchi sat down to the table, careful not to block the _Mo'ari_'s view. Sanchez cast him a curious look.

"You are early.

"So I am," Vierchi replied in a long-suffering manner. "Do you have a First Mate for me yet?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On the question whether you are willing to accept a sixth-generation clone. The guy is reliable, but you know how suddenly they can turn instable."

They exchanged looks full of veiled understanding. Then Vierchi shrugged. "Do I have any other choice?"

"Not really," Sanchez replied. "That rustpot you fly isn't a very… encouraging sight, you know."

"It flies better than it looks," said Vierchi slowly. Which was an understatement, and they both knew it. "But I take what… _whom_ I can get."

Sanchez nodded, acknowledging unspoken answers of various levels. "Deal. You can get him tonight."

"Already? That was fast!"

"Well, yeah, his previous engagement was finished earlier than expected, and…" catching the warning look of his _Mo'ari_ companion, Sanchez shut up abruptly.

"Forrd'hall is about to finish his number," the _Mo'ari_ said; he spoke Standard, but with the thick, guttural accent of his people. "He'll have a few minutes before his next performance."

"How many numbers does he have tonight?" Vierchi asked.

"Five," Sanchez replied. "This is his third one. He'll be pretty drained when he's finally done."

"Well, you were the one who got him a contract in this hellhole," the _Mo'ari_ pointed out sourly. "This is the worst job he's ever had – and the most dangerous one."

"Drreg," Sanchez answered patiently, "he _needed_ this contract. You know that. This was the best I could come up with."

Drreg'holl O'toah Langeisi Zairn nodded glumly. "I know. The question is, however – how high is the price going to be? And who's gonna pay it?"

Sanchez waved off impatiently. "You worry too much.

"Well, _someone_ has to," the _Mo'ari_ grumbled, "since _you_ obviously don't."

Tosing applause interrupted them, as the young dancer finished his performance and left the stage, running down lightly the six side steps to join them. He recognized Vierchi, nodded and smiled, but his deep red eyes narrowed slightly.

"Save your breath," Vierchi said. "I know I am early."

"Have you at least got what we needed?" the dancer asked, his tone light and teasing, but his eyes deadly serious.

Vierchi nodded. "Most of it. My… associate run into problems last year, as you probably know."

"We've heard of it," the dancer unexpectedly broke into a wide grin, his perfect, white teeth gleaming. "In fact, everyone on the station knows it by now. He hasn't stopped lamenting about his months-long martyrium for the last two weeks."

Vierchi grinned, too, but his eyes remained just as serious as the dancers'. "Clever," he said, impressed.

The dancer nodded. "Yeah, he knows what he is doing. People would hear of it anyway, at least he has the chance to tell _his_ version."

"I've got a copy from his release report," Vierchi said, "but it'll cost me a bottle of Antarean brandy, eventually. The real stuff."

"That is doable," Sanchez answered at the questioning look of the dancer. "I'll look into it. By the way, Sdan has arrived an hour ago or so."

Vierchi raised a burly eyebrow. "The mercenary? I didn't know that he was involved."

"He is not," the older _Mo'ari_ said. "He is here on his own business."

"Do you know what it is?" the dancer asked. His brother shook his head.

"Nah. You know his lot. Discretion is their life insurance."

"What about the _Rihannha_ girl?" Vierchi asked.

Sanchez shrugged. "She is clean. I doubt that she has any idea whom she works for."

"That was not what I meant," Vierchi said.

"I know. But she is clean, in every possible way. She was just unlucky to serve someone who has fallen from grace."

"She still could get in great trouble if things turn really serious here," Vierchi pointed out.

"Is that our concern?" the older _Mo'ari_ asked cynically.

"It is _mine_," Vierchi countered. "I was the one who brought her here. And we were involved in getting her the job she has now. A job that could get her into some penal colony."

All eyes turned to the young dancer expectantly. He thought for a moment; then he nodded.

"Warn her," he said to Vierchi. "We are responsible for her involvement. The least we can do is to offer her a way out."

"_Can_ we?" Sanchez asked quietly. "Vierchi can't take her with him, not this time."

"No," the dancer agreed, "but maybe Sdan can."

"And just how do you intend to talk a mercenary into an errand of mercy?" Vierchi asked doubtfully. The dancer shrugged.

"He owes us. We'll collect that debt," he glanced at the stage where the green Orion females neared the end of their performance. "I gotta go back, soon. Sanchez, can you talk to Sdan? You know him the best from us all. Tell him to take her to Rigel IV – Mistress B'Atha will take her in, until we can find a place for her. Right now we have more important things to do. The next six to eight weeks will decide everything we've worked for so long."

He rose. "I have to go back. Will you contact Ben any time soon?"

"In four days' time."

"Good. The girl will need and ID. And _we_ will need those codes."

"I know. We're working on it."

"Then work harder. Time is an important factor here."

He returned to the stage, and the others watched his performance for a while. Then Vierchi stood.

"I have to go, too," he said. "There are a few more people I need to meet."

Sanchez nodded absently. "I'll deliver your First Mate shortly before midnight. And Vierchi… be careful."

"I always am."

"You know what I meant."

Yeah," Vierchi yawned. "Don't worry. I've been dry for years, and I don't intend to change that now."

TBC


	2. Chapter 02: Associates

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

_Horsa's Pub_ is a cheap little bar, the one seen in the Tribble-episode not unlike. Clones as full citizens of the Federation (and one specifically named Dethwe) were mentioned in one of Diane Duane's books, I believe in "The Wounded Sky". I consider her books semi-canon, as some aspects (particularly where Vulcans and Romulans are considered) are much more convincing than in the actual shows.

Also, what is told here about cloning has no scientific basis whatsoever. I've made it up for the sake of this series, and I can be completely wrong. Remember, this is an AU, a story for entertainment, not a scientific thesis.

The adventures of Harry Mudd, mentioned in this chapter, are recited by Spock in the Animated Series episode "Mudd's Woman", though I changed the circumstances a little. The gloomer appeared in the animated episode "More Tribbles, More Troubles". The events considering the Klingon Empire are from the never-realized second series script "Kitumba", written by John Meredyth Lucas.

* * *

**CHAPTER 02: ASSOCIATES**

The next simulated morning of Daleth Station found Captain Vierchi tired and bleary-eyed but in a somewhat better mood than he had expected. The previous night had been a very long one, checking on all his contacts – all little fish, low on the criminal hierarchy, and, what was a pleasant surprise, most of them still alive. Either S'Bysh was getting careless, or he was preparing for something so big that he had no time and no expendable people to watch the small criminals more closely.

True to his word, Sanchez _had_ delivered the new First Mate to the _Bianchi_: a sixth-generation clone of some indefinable humanoid species. The guy wore the name Dethwe, was completely hairless (inclusive eyebrows) and his proportions would have put an Orion mercenary to shame. Which, considering the fact that the closest equivalent of an Orion mercenary was a particularly large Sumo wrestler, was quite an achievement.

Most people had problems with working with clones, especially ones of higher generations, as the cloning process, despite the high hopes made considering it on 21st century Earth, turned out to have a hidden risk factor, which could cause both physical an mental deformations. Also, with each new generation, the clones tended to become less stable mentally and were bent to have violent reactions, if provoked.

The one Sanchez had offered Vierchi as First Mate looked normal and stable enough, save the odd colour patterns all across the visible parts of his body. According to his medical file, there had been a system malfunction in the cloning chamber when he had been created, so he was due to carry these marks till the end of his days. Other than that, he looked friendly and more or less capable, even if a little slow. He showed acceptable familiarity with ship systems, so Vierchi decided to keep him. It wasn't as if he could afford anyone better.

Painfully obvious the fact that his First Mate would never fit into the only small cabin onboard, Vierchi had allowed the clone to settle down in the empty cargo bay as well as he could. Then, after a few hours of unruly sleep, he rose again and went to find his associate.

They had established different meeting places for different contacts years ago. They had even switched back and forth between these places several times. It was safer this way – well, as far as one could speak of 'safety' on Daleth Station at all. Therefore Vierchi knew that for this particular meeting he had to go to _Horsa's Pub_ – a small bar, as far from _S'Bysh's_ as possible, while still on the same trade and entertainment ring.

He strolled through the open entrance – the owner of this bar had made a policy of not having any doors, for some reason – and took a good look around the brightly lit space with its ugly, plastic furniture.

As always, there were lots of people here, enjoying the cheap booze. The bartender – a small, chubby Tellarite – leaned against the bar, haggling with some persistent salesman; one of the _Free Merchants' Guild_, if the traditional clothing was any indication. Nobody else wore those ugly leggings and ridiculous tunics, complete with the widely cut, hooded cloaks under which one could smuggle out a middle-sized, stolen generator… or a drugged slave child.

Other members of the _Guild_ sat in small groups around the oddly shaped little tables. Most of them were humans or other inhabitants of the Rigel system. Orions detested this place for its openness, bright simplicity and total lack of comfort. Which made it absolutely invaluable for Vierchi when he needed to meet some of his associates.

He aimed at an empty table in a corner of the room, near the door, tried to find a semi-comfortable position on one of the impossible chairs – and waited. There was nothing else he could do at the moment. He had sent the message. His associate knew about his arrival by know and would come as soon as possible. Such were the rules of this game.

A scantily clad waitress with short, strangely purple hair and large, tingling earrings of obviously fake gold approached his table, with a tray in her hand. "What's your pleasure?" she asked in a deep, smoky voice.

Vierchi was tempted to order something _really_ potent for a change, like Aldebaran whiskey or Saurian brandy. He _always_ was, this part of his old problem was never going away. But once again, he won the battle of the day, ordering Altair water instead.

The waitress made a funny face, as if serving _water_, no matter what sort, would be beneath her dignity, but swayed away nevertheless.

His water arrived only moments later, and Vierchi continued his silent watch while sipping from it, cataloguing new and familiar faces, trying to figure out patterns in the interaction of the small crowd. He had been away from Daleth Station for months, and it already showed. Things tended to change here at an awfully fast speed, and he needed all his wits together to keep up with the changes. Handling otherwise would have been… unhealthy, to say the least.

After about a standard hour or so, the entrance of the pub darkened again, and this time a big, rotund merchant rumbled in, grinning from ear to ear, and with a slight spring in his step that belied his considerable size. He had a round head, short-cropped hair, and wore an utterly ridiculous jacket of the colour of weeks-old mould, with an orange-and-white striped shirt beneath, baggy kneehosens and high black boots.

"Ah… excuse me, 'scuse me," he said, waving around jovially with a beefy hand, flashing a golden ring that was just a tad to big and shiny to be real gold. His smile was so broad it almost split his face, but his small eyes went around quickly, catching briefly as many looks as he could. Then he approached the bar, efficiently pushing out of way the smaller merchant by his sheer size.

Vierchi suppressed a chuckle as he watched his associate trying to talk the bartender into buying some of his so-called spician flame gems. He had known Cyrano Jones for more than fourteen standard years by know and couldn't believe that the other man was still dealing in those completely useless pieces of coloured glass – and that there still were fools who would actually buy them. Granted, the little trinkets were pretty, but other than that…

Considering that Tellarites had no use for gemstones to begin with – they completely failed to understand the concept of wearing jewellery – it was more than surprising that within ten standard minutes, Cyrano Jones actually managed to sell the bartender not only several dozens of the flame games but an equal amount from the small vials containing Antarian glow water. He persuaded the guileless Tellarite that the stuff was absolutely necessary to polish the flame gems with, so that they wouldn't lose their spark. Why a Tellarite – a member of a race with particularly poor eyesight – would feel the need to keep sparkling chunks of glass was a mystery beyond Vierchi's comprehension, but he had to admit that Cyrano Jones was good in what he was doing.

The big merchant now turned away from the bar, clownish smile still plastered firmly on his face, and scanned the pub quickly. He discovered Vierchi in the corner and strolled over to him at once.

"Salvatore!" he exclaimed, pumping Vierchi's hand in his customary exuberant manner. "My old friend Salvatore Vierchi! How good it is to see you again!"

Vierchi found it hard to resist hitting the other man. He absolutely hated his first name... and everyone who dared to address him by it. The other customers gave him pitying looks, which didn't exactly cheered him up, but he could hardly flat out ignore the man for whom he had been waiting since his arrival here.

The waitress transferred Jones' abandoned drink form the bar, and the two men finally sat down to discuss serious business. Sipping his Altair water, Vierchi watched incredulously as his associate emptied several of his bottomless pockets, spreading various items of his collection – mostly cheap fake gemstones and crystals – generously across the entire table. No other merchant Vierchi had ever seen carried so much useless junk on their person.

Of course, one needed a _very_ well trained eye to notice the barely visible glow that appeared in the obviously fake gem in Jones' huge ring. It was actually a scrambler, and a very cleverly hidden one at that. Among all the fake gems glittering in various too bright colours on the table, one could only catch the change in the ring's stone when one knew what to look for.

Vierchi looked at the ring, then at his associate and nodded slightly, signalling that he understood that they could speak more or less freely now. They both brought forth their PADDs with the trading contracts, as they were supposed to do business with each other, and while the scrambler "translated" their words into standard haggling patterns for anyone who might have been listening, Vierchi could finally address the topics of true importance.

"We were afraid you wouldn't be able to make it," he said, checking the long columns of numbers on his PADD with a convincing scowl. Well, of course it was convincing. Regardless of the circumstances, he still hated the fact that he had to handle sixty per cent of his incomes to the other man. "Running into Kirk, of all people, was something none of us could have counted on."

"You are absolutely right, of course!" Cyrano Jones exclaimed with a broad grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It was a… delicate situation," he added, lowering his voice, so that only Vierchi would hear it. "It could have sabotaged all our well-laid plans – the man is unpredictable. For a moment, I was really concerned. Especially since I didn't have a pretty woman at hand to divide his attention."

"Well, using _tribbles_ to reveal a Klingon agent was certainly a stroke of genius," Vierchi nodded. "Where did you get the annoying little buggers from anyway?"

"That, my friend, is a professional secret," this time, Cyrano Jones' grin was genuine. "But they worked like a charm, didn't they? A good thing that they have such a mutual dislike for each other, them and the Klingons. Plus, the chaos that they caused has made Kirk nice and mad, so he insisted that I'd be forcibly kept on K-7 until they were gone."

"I assume the method with which you managed to get rid of the tribble-plague is one of those professional secrets, too?" Vierchi asked. Jones rolled his eyes.

"Really, Salvatore, you don't think that I'd bring tribbles with me _anywhere_, without having a gloomer ready to deal with them?"

Vierchi nodded his understanding. Gloomers were the only natural enemies of tribbles. They kept the tribble population in check. If one wanted to avoid a natural disaster caused by tribbles, one needed a gloomer.

The pattern was simple enough. Tribbles ate _everything_ they could get. Gloomers, on the other hand, ate nothing but tribbles, and they spawned by asexual bipartition when overfed, just like their prey. Once all the tribbles were gone, the gloomers died, too, by starvation.

"Besides," Jones added jovially, "most of the furry little things died from the poisoned wheat anyway – save those which Kirk's people managed to beam over to the Klingon ship from the _Enterprise_."

"They did _what_?" Vierchi almost choked on his water. Jones shrugged.

"Most people don't know that tribble fur causes severe allergies by Klingons – something akin to human asthma, just much worse. Children can suffocate when forced to stay in a closed environment with tribbles, but adults suffer from them almost as badly. Horribly itching rush is the mildest reaction."

"So, I guess you made quite a wealth out of selling your gloomer to the Klingons, didn't you?" Vierchi said.

"Of course," Jones grinned. "Your sixty per cents wouldn't keep my business up and running."

"True enough," Vierchi admitted; his incomes had been rather on the low side lately. "What has become of our little Klingon agent, though?"

Cyrano Jones shrugged. "He was sent to Limbo, never to return."

_Well, of course_, Vierchi thought. _Where else should they send a spy if not to Limbo?_

The Limbo penal colony was the only place where convicts with a life sentence – imprisoned for piracy, spying, high treason, mass murder and other very serious crimes – could have been sent. Right after death penalty – dealt only for violating Starfleet's General Order 7 which prohibited the visiting of planet Talos IV – being sent to Limbo was the worse thing that could happen to a person.

That silly name stood for a very grim place. The planet Magna Prime was the only natural satellite of a blue-white star five times brighter than Sol. But since the planet itself was three and a half times farther from its sun than Terra was from Sol, it was a bitterly cold place, always tethering on the edge of a sudden, avalanche-like glaciating that could occur every time. That and the high UV-radiation made it barely able to support life, and even the indigenous animals were forced to lead a nocturnal life and to wear extraordinary tick fur for protection.

But the planet also had unusually rich dilithium deposits, which had been the reason to establish a penal colony here. The convicts lived there more or less independently – they could choose their own leaders, create their own little groups and organize recreational activities, as long as they delivered the amount and quality of dilithium ore demanded from them. The overseers didn't interfere with their lives, as long as things ran smoothly. They just couldn't leave the planet. Nobody who had been sent to Limbo ever left afterwards. Nor would the Klingon agent.

Vierchi sometimes asked himself if execution wouldn't be a much more merciful punishment.

"Not that he would be able to return home, after such a spectacular failure," he murmured, mostly for himself.

"Right," Cyrano Jones agreed, "but that is hardly our concern, is it? He knew the risks – just like everyone else in this business."

Vierchi understood the hidden warning all to well. He had known that from the beginning. They both had.

"Speaking of business," he said, "has your extended stay in Klingon territory and on K-7 resulted in any new insights?"

The man known as Cyrano Jones nodded. "You can say that. It's amazing how careless people talk around you if they think you're an idiot. Obviously, they think that being a fool influences your hearing, too."

They both grinned like sharks for a moment, then the big merchant's eyes grew deadly serious again, although the clownish grin remained plastered on his face.

"I have learned things few outsiders had ever known," he added softly. "I can't go into any details – it would be too dangerous, even with the scrambler – but things do _not_ look promising."

Vierchi had a hard time to keep his own grin in place. "How so?"

"It seems that the Emperor has recently died – quite unexpectedly and under questionable circumstances – and since his heir is a very young boy, the equivalent of an eleven-year-old human child, all power has been transferred to the Warlord."

"Who is… what exactly?"

"The head of the ruling warrior class. Now, the new Warlord, Malkhton, belongs to the so-called War Prayers, a group extremely hostile towards the Federation. He has already initiated negotiations with the Roms, as a non-aggression treaty would keep his back free for the case when he makes his move."

"And the Klins were discussing all these things within your earshot?" Vierchi asked. It was a little hard to believe.

Cyrano Jones laughed. "Of course not. But the scrambler is not the only useful little gizmo I have at my disposal, you know."

"You _bugged_ them?" Vierchi felt his eyes literally bulging. "How did you manage _that_? The Klins are the only people more paranoid than the Andorians, and that is not a small achievement to begin with!"

"It is easy when everyone thinks you are a clown and when you act in plain sight," Cyrano Jones shrugged. "Besides, they had all reason to feel safe. Most outsiders don't even understand basic _Kumburanya_, and they were using a rare _Rumaiy_ dialect."

Vierchi nodded absently. He was not as well informed about Klingon affairs as his business partner – he had never had any dealings with the boneheads – but even he was aware of the fact that the Rumaiy minority, approximately one-third of the whole population, provided practically all scientists, engineers, technicians and clerics. While the Kumburanya majority was divided into warriors (males and females alike) and simple workers.

A handful of ancient Rumaiy warrior clans had survived the Kumburanya pogrom, orchestrated by the first Emperor, Kahless, and were now highly respected, but the power was kept firmly in the hands of the Kumburanya oligarchy. Well, military power anyway. The ruling class had probably no idea how dependent they had become on their subjects, but Vierchi had no doubts that the Rumaiy nobles knew that very well.

"Does it seem as if this new Warlord would succeed in creating a treaty with the Roms?" he asked. That would have been unfortunate for the Federation… to put it mildly. Even for such unofficial members as himself.

Cyrano Jones shrugged again. "It's hard to tell. The Roms hate the Klins like the plague, but there has been a slight shift of powers in the Praetorium after they had lost their flagship due to Kirk's most recent actions, and that caused a change in politics. As I was stuck on K-7 for almost eight months, I need to reactivate my info channels concerning the Roms – assuming my contacts are still alive. This new Praetor is a shady figure."

"Maybe you should sell some spician flame games to Mr. Sanchez," Vierchi suggested.

They both laughed, knowing all too well that the real item the other man dealt in was the most profitable ware in the universe – information. He wore his clownish persona as an excellent disguise. It had served him well for almost two decades, as far as Vierchi knew.

What he had done _before_ he appeared on Rigel IV, seemingly out of nowhere, was everyone's guess. The data on his ID seemed genuine enough, backed by government affirmation of some remote colony – they just didn't lead anywhere. Not even Lt. Makepeace, a conveniently corrupt Starfleet communications expert and criminally talented hacker – for which talent he had been assigned to the relay station in the orbit of Rigel VII – could find out anything about the big merchant, although the bonus he had been offered in case of success was most… inspiring.

Vierchi shrugged off these thoughts. If anything, his associate was very useful, and the information he provided always correct. In Vierchi's trade, which sometimes included a little smuggling of both wares and illegal immigrants, this was the most important thing.

"Are you planning to stay on the station any longer?" he asked. Cyrano Jones shook his head.

"Nah, I don't have a death wish." Seeing the other's bewildered look, he lowered his voice again. "Look; I've already reactivated most of my contacts and will do so with the rest of them in a week – well, in case they managed to stay alive, that is. Then I'll relocate to Rigel VI and lie still for a while. I don't want to be here when S'Bysh makes his grand move. Regardless of the outcome, that would be an inconvenient time for us, little fish, to be on the station."

"I agree," Vierchi nodded. "I'll be leaving in a few days myself."

"Really? Where are you going?"

"I managed to nail a long-term assignment by the government of Ilyra VI. Short-term interstellar cargo runs, as they have no warp capability of their own, nor enough shuttles to manage for even the interplanetary shipping. So, I won't even be near the Rigel system for a while."

"Ilyra VI?" Cyrano Jones whistled in surprise. "Now, _that_ is interesting."

"Why ever? Since the high and mighty Federation won't support them with warp technology, they need to get their ware out as well as they can."

"True enough. But do you know who is wanted by the Ilyran government for lifting drugs and other medical supplies in great quantities from their Pharmacy Centre?"

Vierchi shook his head.

"Our old 'friend', Harcourt Fenton Mudd."

"_Harry Mudd_?" Vierchi repeated in complete bewilderment. "What is _he_ doing, running free again? Has he not been quasi-imprisoned on some remote planet for trying to steal the _Enterprise_ with the help of a robot army, at about the same time you ran into Kirk on K-7?"

"A little earlier than that, actually," Cyrano Jones corrected. "That was nine months ago. It took him four months to escape by stealing a small warp-shuttle from the robots. Then he needed another three months to reach Ilyra VI by warp 2. What do you know of Ilyra VI?"

"Not much. It's a pre-warp civilization but at the same time the top provider of all sorts of wares produced by medical chemistry: medications, cosmetics… that sort of things."

"And illegal drugs," Jones added grimly, "including the infamous Venus-drug… and _kireshet_. They have just brought out the new, advanced version of it."

Random pieces of information, picked up gradually during the months before, suddenly fell into pattern in Vierchi's head with an almost audible _click_.

"The Venus-drug?" he repeated. "Mudd had something to do with that already, hadn't he? Was he not the one who smuggled those unfortunate women to Rigel XII, to sell them as bed warmers to the dilithium miners? Poor things thought they were going there to get married…"

"Well, they _did_ get married in the end, didn't they?" Cyrano Jones shrugged. "But yeah, it was Mudd. Though he was only the hand to deliver the ware… both the women _and_ the drugs. The mind – and the money – behind the whole thing was someone else's."

"S'Bysh's", Vierchi said. It was not a question.

"S'Bysh's," the other man nodded. "To pull out a thing of that magnitude, the influence, contacts and money of a _potentate_ are necessary. And had Mudd not lost his own ship on Argelius, due to excessive gambling – which fact forced him to steal a ship and which led to his capture by Kirk – Chief Administrator Thrae would have an even bigger problem on his hands now than he already has."

"So, let me guess," Vierchi said grimy. "S'Bysh promised Harry to leave him alive, _if_ he replaces the lost cargo, especially the drugs."

"Right."

"So Harry took the insane risk to break into the Pharmacy Centre of Ilyra VI, although he knew that he could be executed for it, as Ilyra VI is not a Federation world and has much harsher laws. He stole a huge amount of drugs and escaped… how exactly?"

"Apparently, he managed to get into his ship just in time and escaped to Sirius IX, a nearby world with less than friendly contacts to Ilyra VI. There he somehow managed to sell a fake love potion to at least a thousand inhabitants. Unfortunately for him, the people of Sirius IX quickly developed an allergic reaction to the potion. Mudd had to steal another ship, this time a small scout, and escaped again, supposedly with his stolen drugs from Ilyra VI."

"So, he is wanted by the government of Sirius IX, too, right?"

"He is, but that is no concern of his, unless he is stupid enough to set foot on Sirius IX again, since that is another non-Federation, pre-warp planet. He has a rather good little ship now, and both he and his cargo are quite safe."

"And he is on his way here, isn't he?" Vierchi asked quietly. "With an ungodly amount of _kireshet_, the Venus-drug, and who knows what else."

Cyrano Jones nodded. "He has no choice. He must deliver, or S'Bysh's people would find him, anywhere. And _that_ would be a lot more unpleasant than a simple public execution on Ilyra VI."

"But if _you_ know about this," Vierchi said slowly, "then so does Starfleet Intelligence."

"Most likely," the other man agreed. "I think they have had their eyes on S'Bysh for quite some time. They'd go great lengths to get rid of him – it would blow up the Syndicate ring here for a long time, and this place would be a lot safer. Until the Syndicate regroups, of course, but that wouldn't happen too quickly."

"I see," Vierchi thought about it for a moment. "Well, I am glad that I'll leave, soon. You are right; it won't be healthy for us, little people, to stay here for the big showdown. Whether Starfleet Intelligence manages to nail S'Bysh down or not, the number of casualties is gonna be high."

"Exactly," Cyrano Jones rose and slapped Vierchi's back jovially. "Well, Salvatore, my dear old friend, it has been great to make business with you, as always. I expect my sixty per cent to be transferred to my account within a local day. Good luck to you."

"I hope you break a leg on your way out," Vierchi murmured in a voice too low to be heard by anyone but the listening device he knew was placed near their table. Now, with the scrambler switched off, the device would pick up the words he had actually spoken. Keeping up appearances was everything in this business.

He collected the crystals Cyrano Jones had left scattered across their table. Among the useless junk was one that contained invaluable information. Not even he could tell which one was the genuine article. He'd have to go back to his ship, put them into the decipherer, one after another, to find it. It was also possible that the data were divided among several crystals. It was never the same.

Preparing himself for a long day spent with extracting and decoding information, Captain Vierchi paid for his drink and left the pub.

* * *

When he came back to his ship, he found Nina Velez and her team of two technicians working on the _Bianchi_'s cargo transporter already. The clone watched them with worried eyes but didn't interfere. Good, It seemed that the guy was, indeed, stable enough.

"I'll have to file some business reports," Vierchi told the chief technician. "Call me when you are ready to test the transporter."

"Will do," Velez had already vanished to her hips in the insides of the insides of the transporter console. "Go. You are just in our way here."

Confirmed that his ship was in the best possible hands, Vierchi retired into his cabin. This was going to be a long day. A very long day, indeed.

TBC


	3. Chapter 03: The Mercenary

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

Sdan has nothing to do with the similarly named character in Barbara Hambly's TNG-novels. He has been inspired by actor Cary Hiroyuki-Tagawa and his various roles. I like him and thought he would make a great appearance on a place like Daleth Station.

Trivia about Tellarites is taken from "The Worlds of the Federation" by Shane Johnson.

* * *

**CHAPTER 03: THE MERCENARY**

The man known as Diego Sanchez sauntered leisurely along the trade and entertainment ring of Daleth Station. He could smell at least eight different commercial drugs in he stale air waving at him from the open doors of various establishments. He was familiar with them all, of course; he had been in this entertainment business or years. Besides, he had received a thorough training in field medics, way back in his past that he had shielded from everyone very carefully.

Still, his training alone wouldn't have made him capable of identifying such subtle differences in smell with such accuracy. Sometimes he asked himself just _what_ had his true… employers done to enhance his natural abilities to this grade – then he always decided that it was better not to know. Messing with someone's genetic profile was not only highly illegal, it was also risky. Such profound changes always came with a price – and _he_ would be the one to pay it.

But he had been aware of the risks when he had signed up for this job. He had been told that the changes would be irrevocable – assuming that he would live long enough to have second thoughts. There was a reason why he had placed a frozen sample of his genetic material in the secure depots of that clinic. Should he ever want to found a family, this would be the only way to have normal offspring.

He tried not to think about these things. It was counterproductive, as there was nothing he could change anymore. But sometimes, when he entered a place like the _Arcade_, he couldn't help but wonder if everything he had achieved in this job was truly worth the price.

He walked through under the arched entrance with its harsh, multi-coloured light signs and stepped into the biggest, noisiest gambling establishment of Daleth Station. From pool tables to simulators, from roulette to card tables, every possible sort of game was duly represented, legal or illegal, from a couple of dozen different worlds.

The huge room was dimly lit, save from a small, round table in the middle, on which a female Tullinite dancer performed her artistic number – something between juggling with burning torches and belly dancing. She was completely naked, but with a species looking like Terran foxes and covered with soft, russet fur from the points of their ears to their toes, that was not a big deal. Not for human customers anyway. People watched her more for her skill than for her body.

Sanchez found a free table in a half-hidden niche, as far from the noise as possible, ordered a tequila cocktail and waited.

He hated the _Arcade_, almost as much as he hated _S'Bysh's_. On both places, the noise, the heavy scents in the sticky air, the pulsing, unnatural lights assaulted his artificially enhanced senses and made him vulnerable. Not to mention the killer headaches he got every time he visited them.

But he had no choice. Places as noisy and crowded as these were the best for private discussions, as such meetings seemed to have happened by accident, and the level of background noise made listening devices virtually useless.

"Is this place occupied?" a deceivingly soft voice, that Sanchez immediately recognized, asked politely, and he shook his head.

"No. It's yours, if you want it."

"I think I do," the man with sharp vulcanoid features said conversationally and sat. He had a tall glass in his hand; the vibrant blue of his drink revealed it as Romulan ale – if the true article or some fake thing, by mere sight it couldn't be decided.

The man had long and thick jet black hair, bound to a tight ponytail on the nape of his neck, slightly slanted, feline eyes and pointed ears. The deep lines of his pale face gave him a predatory, almost cruel look, which matched the thin smile that never left his lips. He wore black trousers with high boots that covered his sensitive kneecaps – a common weakness among Romulans – an open-necked, blood-red shirt of some silk-like material and a heavy black leather waistcoat that had at least six pockets of various sizes. A leather belt worn low on his narrow hips with a heavy, old-fashioned phaser of considerable firepower attached to it completed his appearance, giving him a definite air of danger.

Which was understandable, as Sdan, the best-known mercenary of the whole sector – hell, the best-known mercenary of _several_ sectors – was a very dangerous man indeed.

The strange thing about Sdan was that everybody had heard about him – the man was practically a legend – but very few people had actually _seen_ him in action. At least very few that lived to tell the tale, that is. Sanchez was one of these few people and could have verified some of the legends about him – were he not under orders to never speak about that particular incident.

"I heard you were looking for me," Sdan said casually, not even looking at Sanchez; he watched the fox-dancer with a critical eye.

"I was," Sanchez admitted. "I've got a job for you."

_That_ caught Sdan's attention. He turned his head partially to the human, his feline eyes narrowing.

"Do you really believe that you – any of you – could pay my usual price?"

"I don't intend to pay," Sanchez replied, watching the green eyes of the other man warily; of all humanoid species, only Orions had diagonal pupils like Sdan's, and he asked himself, not for the first time, just what the mercenary's family tree might look like. "I am calling in a favour… a debt, if you prefer the approach."

"I see," Sdan's eyes turned back to the fox-dancer. "It must be important, if you collect a life debt for it."

"It _is_ about a life," Sanchez replied. "I want you to get someone to Rigel II. Without witnesses, without a trace."

"That's all?"

"That's all. I can't leave here any time soon, nor can my usual… associates. And this… person has to leave, as soon as possible. She is in danger."

"She," Sdan was still looking away from the human. "Whom are we talking about exactly?"

"A young woman named Arrhae. She is…"

"… the accountant in Madame Vithra's… establishment, I know. I saw her last time I visited."

"I didn't know you were a regular customer at _Madame Vithra's_," Sanchez said with a frown. Sdan shrugged.

"It's none of your business what I am doing in my spare time. Or during work, for that matter. I happen to be very fond of Llanel. She is a sweet young lady… and extremely well trained."

"_And_ she is practically a child," Sanchez couldn't quite hide his disgust. Sdan gave him a quick, hard look.

"Pull yourself together," he said in a low voice. "You are slipping. In your job – or mine, for that matter – one can't be sentimental. The planetary government has been fighting child prostitution on Rigel V for centuries – it is their job to solve that problem, not ours."

"I might be slipping at times," Sanchez riposted sharply, "but at least I don't sleep with under-age children at _Madame Vithra's_.

Sdan closed his eyes for a moment to regain his own slipping control. They were both tense, and that could prove fatal in their trade.

"Neither the girls nor the boys at _Madame Vithra's_ are children," he then said slowly. "I don't doubt that they have been taken from their families and sold into prostitution at a very tender age – these things still happen on Rigel V. But Madame Vithra is sly enough not to present them publicly before they have officially come to the age of consent."

"Which, on Rigel V, is the equivalent of fourteen years in human terms," Sanchez said in dismay. Sdan shrugged.

"They are _not_ humans. You should stop implying your own morals to other races. Besides, they are all older than that. And at least when I visit Llanel or Edron, they are not harmed. You can't say that about some of their other customers."

"Edron?" Sanchez frowned. "Isn't that the young male who has just been transferred from a different… establishment a couple of months ago?"

"The same one," Sdan shot the human a slightly irritated look. "So what? I'm not the only one who walks both sides of the street. And I don't lead a life that would be the ideal setting for a family – assuming anyone _wanted_ to live with a freak of nature like me. Considering what _you_ are doing for a living, you are still pretty much of a prude. You humans disgust me sometimes."

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual," Sanchez growled. "Fortunately, we don't have to socialize, and we don't have to work together, either. Not beyond this job. Now, are you taking it or not?"

Sdan nodded. "Of course. I am indebted by your people, and if this is what you want in exchange, it's your call. Although I'm a little curious why _you_ of all people want to smuggle an illegal Rom out of the station," seeing Sanchez's baffled look, he laughed; it was a deep, surprisingly pleasant sound. "Oh, c'mon, you didn't really think that I wouldn't be able to keep a Rom apart from the usual Rigelians! What do you want from her anyway?"

"Nothing. We just don't want her to end up on a penal colony. She doesn't deserve that. She's clean."

"Are you _absolutely_ sure?" Sdan's cat-like eyes were cold and wary. Sanchez nodded.

"We checked her. And re-checked. We set up traps for her; more elaborate ones than for a Syndicate operative. We watched her. We even had her telepathically scanned. She _is_ clean. And she deserves a choice, after her own people have betrayed her."

"They have not _betrayed_ her," Sdan corrected. "It's standard procedure in Romulan law to kill the whole household or sell them into slavery, when a great House falls from grace."

"Whatever," Sanchez replied impatiently. "Can we _not_ fight about semantics? Bottom line is, she managed to escape, she fled here, and if she weren't taken away shortly, she'd end up in prison. We don't want that, but we can't make any move right now. End of the story."

Sdan rolled his eyes. "You people definitely have some incurable responsibility syndrome. What the heck are you doing, falling all over yourselves, just to save her hide? She won't tell you anything of importance; Rom servants are extremely loyal."

"We don't want anything from her," Sanchez replied tiredly. "We just don't want any undeserved harm happening to her. It's called _responsibility_, indeed. And if you can't understand what that means, that's not my problem."

"You know nothing about me," Sdan said calmly, " and yet you are trying to judge my by your own pathetic human measures. You are trying to save _one_ innocent person, before all hell breaks lose on this station. What about the other innocents? Do they not deserve to be saved? Because when it comes to the big showdown, a _lot_ of innocents might get hurt – or killed. You _are_ aware of that, aren't you?"

"So, is it better to let those we _could_ actually save get hurt as well?" asked Sanchez accusingly. Sdan shrugged.

"I don't know. I never suffered from the delusion that I would have the right to decide who deserves a second chance and who doesn't. Who should be saved and who should die." He rose from his seat. "I'll leave the station in four days' time. If the girl contacts me in that time, I'll take her with me. If she does not, I'll leave without her."

Without waiting for an answer from the human, he strolled over to the middle of the _Arcade_, his half-finished drink still in his hand. Sanchez watched in vague disgust as the mercenary began flirting with the fox-dancer. She seemed rather willing to accept his advances, and they left together, just a few minutes later.

The human vacated his seat as well and left the gambling palace as quickly as he could without drawing attention. Dealing with Sdan always gave him headaches, additionally to those caused by the place itself. _Next time_, he thought, _Drreg can have the pleasure._

He returned to his quarters and shot himself with a hypo. Frequent headaches were among the side effects of his enhanced senses, and right now, he had no time for the best cure – to lie down in a darkened room for a few hours like some Victorian lady. He tried to cut back the painkillers, to find alternate methods of dealing with his problems, but this was not the time for that.

He waited, half-lying in a big, overstuffed armchair, with closed eyes, until the painkillers clicked in and the throbbing in his head gradually faded away. Enjoying the painless bliss for a moment, he replicated himself some coffee – the taste wasn't quite right, these food synthesizers seemed to have their bad days, but at least it was hot – and went to find Vierchi.

It was time for the old pirate to seek out the Romulan girl and warn her.

* * *

One of the problems for space stations that supported great numbers of permanent population was to create a stabile environment that the different races would find more or less acceptable. Daleth Station was no exception from this rule. Since the majority of its inhabitants were human, vulcanoid Rigelian and Orion, the air in the common areas was a little dry and slightly warmer than the Earth norm, and the artificial gravity was just slightly above the standard 1G.

It was a compromise nobody really felt happy about, but they had to learn to live with it. Vulcanoids, Orions and Andorians, used to live on hot and dry worlds, found the station too cold and the air too humid. Humans found it too hot and too dry, and the slightly heightened gravitation tired them quickly.

Tellarites, another group of considerable size among the standard population, were not bothered by the gravitation or the heat, but their sensitive skin suffered from the dryness of the air greatly. Much more than human skin would do.

Therefore, the common mud bath – the only one of the station – was very well visited and considered a blessing. Tellarites would have gone mad from the itching of their skin within days without it, and even some other species valued it greatly.

It was open to anyone, around the clock, as long as they paid the entrance fee and behaved themselves – although the latter part had a greatly different meaning in Tellarite culture than it would have had among most humanoids. A culture where artfully phrased, inventive insults were called the _Polite Speech_ could confuse outsiders sometimes.

The communal mud baths – also called therms, with a borrowed Terran expression – were much more than simple healthcare facilities. They were the very heart of Tellarite society – the places where the actual socialization took place. Nowhere else were Tellarites so relaxed and approachable as while soaking in the wonderfully smooth, wet and clean mud that could have put the similar facilities of a Terran beauty farm to shame.

This particular therm had three large basins, lined up under the same low, arched ceiling, and filled with the finest mud of various temperature and density. It also had an adjoining damp chamber, vaguely similar to a Terran sauna, a massage room – the short, heavily built Tellarites tended to get painfully knotted muscles all the time – and showers that directly led to the changing rooms.

All these facilities were dimly lit, as if not to irritate the weak Tellarite eyesight, giving the therm the overall image of a warm, rainy day. There was no background music, but the sound of softly falling rain was simulated, enriched with the additional rolling rumbles of a far-away thunderstorm, giving Tellarites a distinct feeling of home, as their planet, called _Miracht_ in their own guttural language, was a rather wet place, with practically no seasonal changes. The latter peculiarity was the result of the fact that the planet's axis stood at one-point-seven degrees from orbital perpendicular.

On this particular evening, the therm was sparsely populated. Only in the farthest basin with the thickest mud of all sat a larger group of Tellarites, leading a surprisingly subdued conversation in their own language. The two _Mo'ari_, walking over from the changing room to the basin where the mud was the most diluted, breathed in the warm, moist, peculiarly sweet-scented air deeply.

It was at least twenty-eight degrees Celsius in there, as humans measured temperatures, which more or less matched the average temperature on Miracht's surface on any given day. The warmth and the humidity was very similar to the conditions on their home of choice – a wet jungle planet called Risa, where the elaborate weather grid that was supposed to turn it into a tropical paradise, still had years of installation work to go – so they visited the therm frequently. The only unfamiliar detail was the scent. The air on Risa had a spicy fragrance, which they missed very much.

"Damn slippery steps," the young dancer cursed, descending into the basin of their choice carefully; he couldn't afford any injury by the job he did for a living. "I wonder how Tellarites manage to get in without breaking their necks."

"The fact that they don't seem to _have_ a neck in the first place might have to do something with it," his brother replied lazily, but followed him with the same caution.

The dancer shot him an irritated look. "You know what I mean. If we could slip easily, they with those hooves must be even more endangered. Smaller sole surface and all that."

"Yeah, but they have a heightened sense of balance," the other man replied with a yawn and submerged in the mud up to his ears. "Mmmm, this feels good. I wish we had more often the time for a good, relaxing soak."

"Look who is speaking," the dancer replied with a grin. "Which one of us has to do acrobatics for hours every evening?"

The older man shook his head with a tolerant smile. "As if you didn't enjoy it…"

"I do," the dancer admitted, "otherwise I'd have quit these sorts of jobs years ago. But a break is nice sometimes."

"You _did_ quit," his brother reminded him. "This here certainly isn't what you have trained for, years upon years."

The dancer shrugged. "Sure, it isn't. But after that knee injury I could never do the real thing again. You know how it is – no matter how many times they operate on you, sometimes the ligaments just can't be what they used to be anymore."

"Do you ever regret…" the other man trailed off, not sure how to continue; or if he should continue at all.

The dancer didn't answer at once. Even after all those years, this was still a sensitive topic between them.

"Sometimes," he finally said. "But for us it's too late by now. We are in too deeply already. Well; at least what we do is necessary."

"That's cold comfort," the older man commented dryly; it was hard to tell of which for the two of them he was speaking. Then something caught his attention. "Look, there he comes! That went quickly!"

_He_ was nobody else but the barkeeper from _Horsa's Pub_ – a small, rotund figure, even for a Tellarite. The same one who had just bought several dozens of completely worthless spician flame games from Cyrano Jones, complete with the matching portions of Antarian glow water to polish them.

He waltzed down the flat, wet steps to the farthest basin where his fellow Tellarites were having some sort of social gathering with hair-raising speed and skill and joined them with happy grunts. The others gathered around him in no time, and the volume of the conversation raised a notch; but still not enough for anyone who might have been listening. Besides, a universal translator had to be calibrated _very_ finely to make sense of the more peculiar Tellarite dialects.

"Clever," the dancer commented softly. "The light is just low enough so that the 'gems' won't glitter too obviously. And as the contents are enclosed in glass, they can exchange and distribute them _in_ the mud itself. Whoever came up with the insane idea of 'spician flame gems' anyway?"

"Oh, they actually do exist," his brother laughed. "The trick is to smuggle the fake ones into the genuine crap and so get them to the buyer. This is about the most ingenious way to get phaser power packs through customs illegally."

"But the absolute peak is the 'Antarian glow water'," the dancer grinned broadly. "'Polishing the gems', indeed…"

"That is a delicate thing," the other man agreed. "Should they err in the concentration, the special acids would eat the power packs as well as the glass encasing, and probably even cause an explosion of amazing magnitude. But these guys don't do this for the first time."

"What about the other half of the cargo?" the dancer asked quietly. "Has Vierchi already managed to offload it?"

"Nina was working on his cargo transporter last time I heard," his brother replied. "I must admit that the whole idea is unbelievable."

"Sooner or later someone will realize what we have been doing and try to copy it," the dancer shrugged. "But we'll have thought of something else by then and passed the word about this solution to regular security. Although I must admit that it can be a little demanding, to be always one step before the… the _concurrence_. But that is our job."

"Mhm," the older man agreed absent-mindedly and relaxed a little in the mud, now that this part of the mission had been accomplished. "I believe I'll afford a massage tonight. My back is a mess. Keeping an eye on you is a stressing business."

"You volunteered," the dancer reminded him. The other shot back a dirty look.

"Of course I volunteered. I had no other chance, had I? To tell the truth, though, you are _not_ making my job any easier, Jon. You take too many risks."

"And you are slipping," the dancer's eyes grew cold and angry. "Something I'm _not_ doing. Not yet, anyway," he added realistically.

His brother realized the mistake he had made and closed his eyes for a moment in regret. He _was_ slipping indeed. And they couldn't afford _that_.

'I'm sorry," he murmured. "Look, it won't happen again. I… I'm just worried about you. You keep going to places where I can't protect you. Like _Madame Vithra's_."

"Drreg," the dancer laughed quietly, "I'd make myself suspicious if I _didn't_ go to places like that. By my trade, it's _expected_ that I go to brothels. At least _Madame Vithra's_ is a clean place, and the girls don't try to steal from the customers."

"That's true, but it is also an open place. She doesn't even offer much protection to her employees; the customer can't count on any."

"Do you really think that the protection Madame Vithra might offer would do me any good?" the dancer raised a shaved-off eyebrow. "She is practically an associate of S'Bysh. Granted, she doesn't deal in weapons, dilithium or illegal drugs – not that we know of it, that is – but your don't believe that the money for the whole chain of her brothels had come from the savings made in her more… active days in the sex business, do you?"

And that is exactly what makes me nervous, whenever you choose to visit her brothel," the older man replied. "According to Sdan, she pays S'Bysh thirty per cent of all her incomes in every local cycle."

"If she is indebted by S'Bysh, she'd hardly have any other option," the dancer said soberly. "No amount of cosmetic surgery would restore her face, should she fail to fulfil her obligations. And in her trade, beauty means business insurance. She _has_ to keep up appearances, even if she is no longer on active duty, you know."

"I know," his brother frowned. "But that doesn't make her place less dangerous for you – on the contrary. Why can't you visit other places, where the owner isn't on S'Bysh' paylist?"

The dancer laughed mirthlessly. "Drreg, I don't think you could find a single brothel on this station where the owner is _not_ on S'Bysh's paylist. Which was the reason we have been sent here in the first place, remember?"

"True enough," the other man sighed. "But I have a bad feeling about this whole mission, Jon. A really bad feeling."

"So do I," the dancer replied, his eyes turning cold again. "Especially as this is the second time in five minutes that you have slipped. Should it happen again, just once before we are done here, I'll send you home with the first ship that heads in the right direction. We are only weeks away from achieving what we have worked for for years. I can't use here anyone who is not one hundred per cent reliable."

The older man tried to answer something, but the dancer silenced him with an icy look.

"Save your breath," he said. "Either you pull yourself together, or you'll board the first ship to Risa, first thing in the morning. There is too much at stake. We can't afford any mistakes, not now."

"Wait!" the other said, seeing that he was about to leave the basin. "Where, do you think, are you going? I won't let you stroll around the station unprotected."

"I am taking a shower now, and then I'll meet Nina. You, on the other hand, will get that massage. Then go to our quarters and rest. Do something about your nerves and your concentration; you sorely need it."

"And you need someone with you all the time. We agreed on that!"

"I'm not a child or a clueless weakling, Drreg, I can take care of myself for a short time. You do as I've told you, or you leave tomorrow. End of discussion."

With that, the dancers walked out of the basin and left in the direction of the communal showers. The older _Mo'ari_ glared after him for a moment, cursing softly in a lesser Romulan dialect – a wonderful language for really flavoured speech – then he, too, sprinted out of the mud bath, directly to the next comm unit. Wiping his hand clean with a towel, he tipped in a rarely used personal comm code and waited impatiently, praying that their friend would have her comm unit on her.

"Velez," a cold female voice said, almost immediately.

"Nina, he is about to leave the therm in five minutes or so," the _Mo'ari_ told her in hurry. He didn't need to go into any detail. "I won't be with him – he is having one of _those_ moments, plus I was being careless, so he sent me back to our quarters. Can you meet him before the therm?"

"Sure, I'm on my way already. Will you at home afterwards?"

"Yeah. I have to wait for Ben's message. Out."

TBC


	4. Chapter 04: A Fair Warning

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

Again, Arrhae is not identical with Diane Duane's character in "The Romulan Way". She is genuinely Romulan and has different family and clan names. Diane Duane established in her book that 'Arrhae' is a fairly common female Romulan name, and I borrowed it because I couldn't think of anything better. The character is based on a Real Life friend, who helped me developing it (it was her alias in a Star Trek RPG) and allowed me to use it. Thanks, Andrea!

Madame Vithra, on the other hand, is a semi-canon character that appears in John Vornholt's book "Mind Meld". In this story, she is considerably younger and less wealthy than in the novel, but already on her way to become the rich industrial she would be in that book which takes place after "The Undiscovered Country". The strange collar of her dress, that actually could be buttoned together to hide most of her face, was originally planned by William Ware Theiss for the dress of Amanda, Spock's mother in "Journey to Babel" but was never realized. I found a picture about it in the _Star Trek Sketch Book_.

Rigelian Kasaba fever was a fake illness mentioned by Dr. McCoy to fool some malevolent aliens. But I found the name so cool that I decided to make the disease real.

I adopted some of Vornholt's ideas about Rigelian culture (for example the clan marriages, the numerology and a few other aspects), but not all of them. Since Vornholt was the only one who ever cared for the Rigelians, I felt it proper to keep as close to his concept as possible.

* * *

**CHAPTER 04: A FAIR WARNING**

It was on the fourth day after his return to Daleth Station that Captain Vierchi finally found the time to make a visit in Madame Vithra's establishment, where his protégée worked. _Madame Vithra's_ was situated in a particular segment of the trade and entertainment ring called The Quarter – for reasons unknown to everyone. About two dozens of such establishments were there, servicing various purposes and demands, from human interest to the strangest alien kinks.

_Madame Vithra's_ was he largest and cleanest of all, designed as an elegant Rigelian villa. Twenty prostitutes worked here, ten males and ten females, as Rigelian numerology demanded a balance in all things. They were all very young – the average Rigelian pleasure house only dealt with tender flesh – and they were all Rigelians, trained to behave as Vulcans or Romulans as well, should their customers have a particularly exotic taste. Vierchi knew that actually surprisingly many people had. After all, finding a true Vulcan or Romulan willing to satisfy their needs wouldn't have been an easy task. Madame Vithra had an excellent sense for business and knew very well what she was doing.

Entering _Madame Vithra's_, one first came to a foyer that looked very much like the anteroom of a noble house. Madame herself – a voluptuous lady, slightly beyond her first youth, with flowing jet-black hair and so much make-up in her face that it came close to cosmetic alterations – was resting on a low, plush sofa on which four people would have found enough place, watching the entrance like a hawk. Another woman, this one considerably younger and clad in simple back, stood behind the circular desk to welcome customers and do the actual work.

Madame wore an eccentrically-cut, long green dress, interwoven with thin golden threads and with a high collar up to almost her dramatically shaded and lined green eyes. The dress was open on the left side till mid-tight, revealing the Rigelian equivalent of black silk stockings and high-heeled ankle boots. The outfit seemed decadent, but Vierchi had known Madame Vithra for years and knew that she could put up a mean fight, even in that less than practical garment.

Recognizing the smuggler who often provided her with small amounts of semi-legal cargo, Madame Vithra rose from her sofa and swept forth to greet him in the manner of a benevolent aristocrat who welcomes a useful but insignificant servant.

"Captain Vierchi!" she purred with a low, throaty voice, "How good of you to visit my humble establishment again! It has been too long…"

"Too long indeed," Vierchi took a small, deceivingly soft hand that could have broken his neck with minimal effort and kissed it gallantly.

Given the right angle, Madame Vithra was very much capable of killing a man twice her size. Vierchi had seen it with his own eyes. Not that the victim had deserved anything better, trying to kill one of Madame's "boys" in a drug-induced frenzy. But the sight had still been disturbing, and that was the time when Vierchi started to understand that Madame Vithra was a lot more than she seemed.

During the recent years, he had collected a great deal of data about Madame's activities. It had not been easy, as she was cautious, secretive and full of mistrust. But what could one expect from a woman who had been taken from her clan by force and sold into one of the bigger cities to become a child prostitute at the age of ten?

Madame had gone through seven hells, and it had made her hard and merciless as steel. Vierchi knew that the heavy make-up she wore was not only meant to make her look younger – beyond a certain age she wouldn't have a choice in her trade anyway. The cosmetics served to cover the damage the dreaded Rigelian _Kasaba fever_ had caused, an illness similar (though less virulent) than leper had been on Earth. A disease that only spread through sexual intercourse.

Discovered in time, it could be cured completely, but the traces remained for life. One of these traces was tissue scars, too deep to remove with a dermal regenerator. Why Madame hadn't had removed them by cosmetic surgery (she was wealthy enough to afford it) was a mystery. Maybe she kept them as a warning – for herself and her employees.

Another trace was the hoarse, throaty voice of the cured victims, as the illness frequently affected the vocal cords. Despite all this, Vierchi still found that Madame Vithra was a sight for sore eyes. He told her so, and she grinned broadly.

"Still the old flatterer, aren't you, Captain? But I thank you nevertheless. Would you care to take a light early meal with me and my spouses? Business is a little low at this time of the day, so I can allow myself a break and leave things in Spiria's capable hands for a little while," she added, giving her co-wife behind the circular desk an appreciative look.

"I'm honoured, Madame, I really am, but…" Vierchi couldn't finish his lame attempt to excuse himself. Madame Vithra upped her offer immediately.

"Did I already mention that we have just got some _cargil_ mussels, fresh from Rigel V?" she asked sweetly. "I'd be delighted to share them with you."

Truth be told, Vierchi was less than eager to waste his precious time with Madame and her junior spouses who had accompanied her on Daleth Station (while the older ones tended to clan business back home). He came her to talk with Arrhae, and it was urgent. But he knew how unwise it would be to fall from Madame's good graces.

"Well, originally I have come to look after Arrhae once again," he admitted; honesty was the best way to keep out of trouble, even though Rigelians didn't share the telepathic abilities of their Vulcan cousins. "But this is not an invitation I could ever reject. I haven't had _cargil_ mussels in ages. My low budget wouldn't allow them"

"Oh, we can have them quite often," Madame Vithra took his arm and navigated him into her private dining room that was adjoining the foyer. "One of my older and richer spouses, Bonkuyo, owns several mussel banks along the coasts of the southern continent."

Vierchi nodded absent-mindedly. Bonkuyo was rather well known across the Rigel system, as he belonged to the very few wealthy industrials of Rigel V. After a plague had wiped out the major cities and industrial centres of the planet some twelve hundred years earlier, the survivors formed a very different culture – one that was rural and decentralized.

This culture – that had lived on ever since – included the custom of clan marriages, to avoid having the families decimated again. The different clans lived scattered across the whole planet, trading in various biomedical products, and their technology was majorly based on solar energy. The natural flora of the planet conquered the ruins again, turning Rigel V into some sort of paradise – well, almost.

As environmental-friendly as this low-technology lifestyle was, it came with a price. The planet remained poor, compared with other Federation worlds. In fact, Rigel V's economy was to a great extent based on the financial strength of wealthy citizens who had migrated to the other Rigel Colonies and invested into industry, trade and mining.

Only a few decades ago had some more progressive clan mothers realized that their homeworld would become completely dependant on the rich industrials on the colonies, if nothing was done to prevent it. So they decided to act. They persuaded some of those rich industrials to marry into their families and secretly, behind the backs of fanatical numerologists, were working on the reforms that had to be made.

A few tentative steps had been made already, to fire up industrial production on the homeworld itself. Ambassador T'Sedd, their representative in the Federation Council, was one of the driving forces behind the new development. Married to a Vulcan, she had adapted to the logical ways of her husband's people, and was not afraid to take radical action, if needed.

Needless to say that she had taken up residence on Rigel II, instead of the homeworld (when she wasn't on Earth, that is). Although a native to Rigel V, she was an agnostic, and traditionalists could be rather aggressive when it came to religious issues. As far as numerology _could_ be considered a religion, of course.

Only a few of the richer, more important clan leaders supported T'Sedd's economical ideas. Bonkuyo, who controlled food production in an entire region, was one of those. He was one of the Elders of their clan – meaning that he was one of its founders – and so other wealthy members followed him.

Madame Vithra didn't belong to the clan Elders – in fact, it had been less than ten standard years that Bonkuyo had bought her out of her "contract" and made her the head of this particular business area. She proved very skilled in running their extensive chain of pleasure establishments, but that came as no surprise. She was an insider and a consumed professional, after all.

Vierchi knew from rumours that the marriage group had outgrown its comfortable numbers and split a few years ago. While the senior members remained on the homeworld, keeping financial issues firmly in hand, small groups of the junior spouses had been sent to the colonies and to Daleth Station, to organize business right on the spot.

At the moment, Madame Vithra had two husbands and a co-wife with her at Daleth Station – an even number of males and females, as the rules of numerology required. She, personally, was more superstitious than a true believer, but one had to follow the rules of Rigelian society to be accepted; even the foolish ones.

Her senior husband present, Denkahr, was a rugged-looking man in a tailored suit – or what went as a suit for Rigelians. He was considered a ruthless businessman with a keen sense for opportunity, and, unlike most Rigelians, was not a particularly friendly person.

Ishul, her other husband looked almost obscenely young and somewhat… artificially pretty, with long, wavy hair tumbling over his shoulders, long eyelashes and a fine-boned face that would have put any woman to shame. Vierchi hadn't met him before but knew from reliable sources that Ishul was the last spawn of the family of Rigel V's most famous numerologist – a highly respected but very poor family that had practically sold him into marriage.

Consequently, he had nothing to say in the family and was nothing but a pretty toy, decorated with fine clothes and expensive jewellery. Nominally, he was supposed to oversee the male prostitutes, but he'd never have been able to keep Madame Vithra's "boys" firmly in hand.

_That_ task was in reality assigned to Madame's "champion" – a tall, muscular Rigelian man named Mondral, whose impassive face would have suited any Vulcan or Romulan. Though young and handsome as well – good looks being part of the business here – Mondral had the cold eyes of a professional killer. Which was fitting for a "champion" – the bodyguard of an important person.

Vierchi was offered a seat between Madame and Denkahr, and a slim and obviously frightened girl, whom they called Chorin, served them some purple liquid in small cups. Vierchi sighed. _Of course_ they had to offer him _Trijelian_ tea – one of the most awful-tasting beverages of the whole sector. And of course they had to serve it scalding hot. He sometimes wondered if all vulcanoids had a digestive tract made of asbestos. Right now, he could only hope that he wouldn't spill the tea over himself, as that would have required plastic surgery afterwards.

Fortunately for him, his hosts were occupied with their own tea (Rigelians had an obscure passion for the horrid blend), and when the girl servant returned to offer the mussels, conversation had turned to business already.

Denkahr proved surprisingly familiar with Federation trade practices… well, not _that_ surprisingly, actually, as he used to be the ambassador of his region, sent to Rigel VI for some years. But he also seemed one of the more conservative people who valued the rural lifestyle of his homeworld very much and was willing to defend it against anyone.

Madame Vithra seemed just the opposite, and soon enough, they got engaged in a bitter fight about economics and finances. Obviously not for the first time, judged by the bored expression of Ishul's too-pretty face.

"We _need_ open trade," Madame argued, forgetting even about the delicacies on her plate. "We need investors from other Federation worlds, we need their credits and markets for the wares produced by our craft guilds. It's not like we would have anything else to offer!"

"But we don't need to become dependant from the other Rigel Colonies," Denkahr replied, cold anger glittering in his dark eyes. "We don't need the _Free Merchants' Guild_ to take over our economy and deliver it directly into the hands of the Orion Syndicate."

Madame Vithra gave a derisive snort. "Bah! You and the others are hysterical."

Denkahr shook his head in exasperation. "You've been in our family for almost ten standard years by now, but you still don't seem to understand what Bonkuyo and the other Elders are working towards, do you? Sometimes I think it was a mistake to buy you free. You just don't have the instinct for the really important things."

"Was it not you who suggested the Elders to start business on this station?" Madame riposted. "Or did you not realize back then who is truly running this place? Who is the one with no instinct for really important things?"

Denkahr rolled his eyes. "Of course I knew about S'Bysh! I'm a little longer in this business than you are. And I suggested establishing this outpost to be informed about trade opportunities, to get contact with the representatives of many worlds and to keep an eye on the Syndicate. Your little brothel isn't our ultimate goal here, in case you haven't realized yet. It's a useful tool, but only that: a tool. You should better get used to that thought and not overestimate your own importance."

The bickering continued like that for an hour or so. After a while, Ishul excused himself and curled up on the spacious sofa in the background, taking a small, leather-bound book with very thin, gold-rimmed pages out of his pocket and began to read. A quick look at the book made it clear that it was a pocket edition of _The Doctrine of Lollo_, the famous book of numerology – the closest thing Rigelians had to a holy script.

A mildly amused smile on the blank face of Mondral revealed that the bodyguard had little respect for any present member of the family that paid him for his services, though certain looks he gave Madame made Vierchi think that there were at least a few of her attributes he could value. The argument itself didn't seem to interest him a bit. He had most likely heard the same thing over and over again since coming to Daleth Station.

Vierchi, on the other hand, listened carefully, making mental notes about the important pieces of information the two Rigelians unintentionally dropped in the heat of their argument. He would have to compare facts with his associates later, but he slowly got the impression that Denkahr's concerns were well-founded. It seemed that the Orion Syndicate had, indeed, begun to infiltrate the disorganized economy of Rigel V.

It shouldn't have come unexpected, actually. The Syndicate had always thrived in chaos, and Rigel V had practically no large government bodies – only the local prefects, who all sent their so-called ambassadors to wherever they needed to establish trade contacts. And the Assembly, of course, but that only met twice a year. Such a decentralized society practically begged the Syndicate to establish footholds wherever it wanted.

The Elders of Madame's clan apparently wanted to keep the Syndicate off their homeworld, as they planned to take over the organization of industry and trade themselves. In a manner, they were about to create their own little syndicate and didn't want a bigger shark in the pond. Vierchi found the whole thing fascinating; he'd learned more about the inner struggles of Rigelian society in this one hour than during the years before.

Denkahr finally realized that they shouldn't be discussing sensitive issues in front of a stranger. He ended the argument with a word of authority – being a senior spouse gave him the right to do that – and they finished the meal in icy silence. Despite the usefulness of his visit, Vierchi was utterly relieved when he could finally leave and do what he had really come for: to find his protégée and warn her about the things to come.

* * *

He found Arrhae in her small office that opened directly from the foyer, right on the left side of the main entrance. The young Romulan woman wore a simple, Rigelian-style combination of dark blue trousers and a loose dark tunic, since she was pretending to be Rigelian for her own safety. Her slightly broad features made her very different from the aristocratically sharp-faced Romulan officers of higher rank who usually came from the patrician circle of great Houses. But for the human eye she still looked pretty enough, and her pointed ears gave her simple face an exotic touch.

She greeted Vierchi in her customary, subdued manner. Romulans were just as disciplined as Vulcans, although for different reasons. For Vulcans, discipline was a matter of philosophy. For most Romulans, it was the only way to survive in a society based on spying and personal vendetta and constantly watched by the ruthless _Tal'Shiar_.

"It's good to see you," Captain," Arrhae said in grammatically correct, almost accent-free English (the only accent she had was Rigelian already) and offered Vierchi a seat. "I didn't know you were at Daleth Station again."

She had even learnt to use contractions since their last meeting.

"I only arrived four days ago," Vierchi answered, "and I had to make… certain arrangements before seeking you out."

Arrhae frowned. She might have been a housekeeper of common birth back home, but he had not got that job for being a fool. Running the day-to-day affairs of a great House's main estate was not an easy task in Romulan society.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Nah, just business as usual," Vierchi replied smoothly, well aware of the fact that the small office was most likely watched. Madame Vithra never left anything or anyone uncontrolled. That would be suicidal at Daleth Station. "Have you had lunch already?"

"I require little nourishment," Arrhae said truthfully; the things he could not help but see during work time had completely ruined her appetite. "But if you are offering to buy me a drink, I won't say no. All these numbers make me thirsty sometimes."

Vierchi nodded. "Consider yourself invited. Any choice of place?"

"What about _Thorev's Cantina_?" Arrhae asked. "That is the only place on the whole station that serves real Andorian ale… I've grown fond of that beverage since I am here. It has such a spicy touch."

It was an excellent choice, of course. The extremely sensitive antennae of the Andorians registered the slightest electronic buzz of listening devices immediately. Plus, Andorians were suspicious, paranoid and lightly irritable. Consequently, it was virtually impossible to bug a bar run by Andorians and full of Andorian personnel for longer than a standard hour. They would register the bug within ten minutes, order a search immediately and find it wherever it was placed.

"Sounds good," Vierchi nodded, wondering if Arrhae had ever drunk Andorian ale. She probably had. Romulan camouflage practices were nothing if not thorough – they had to be. "Say, in ten minutes?"

"Make it twenty," Arrhae said. "I have to finish this sheet first."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at a table in _Thorev's __Cantina_, far enough from the bar, so that they could not be overheard – Andorians were notoriously noisy and had _very_ good hearing. Arrhae was sipping her ale, while Vierchi had ordered Altair water, as usual.

"So," Arrhae said after the waiter was far enough, "let's cut to the case, shall we? I only have a thirty-minute lunch break. What's up?"

"Several things, none of which would influence your life directly; not under normal circumstances," the human replied evasively. "Nevertheless, you shouldn't remain here any longer. This place might become… unpleasant"

"Unpleasant for me personally or for people in general?" Arrhae asked, knowing all too well that Romulan spies – sent by the enemies of the House she had served all her life – could and did slip through the controls occasionally, disguised either as Vulcans or as Rigelians.

"It's not about you," the smuggler answered. "It's about your employer. Or, more accurately, about that 'protector' of hers."

Arrhae nodded her understanding. There was no need for names; they both knew that Madame Vithra could never have opened her brothel at Daleth Station without signing a contract with S'Bysh in the first place. _Nobody_ could have. Bonkuyo might have bought her free from her _Rigelian_ 'protector' back home, but at Daleth Station, _everybody_ was in S'Bysh's pocket. Even some members of the civilian constabulary. And everybody had to pay considerable sums for the right to have a business existence – and to keep it.

"Starfleet has had an eye on him for quite some time," Vierchi added.

Of that Arrhae had heard already. News travelled faster than warp 10 on a station like this. But it didn't seem as if the Orion pate had been worried about Starfleet.

"That's nothing new," she said with a shrug. The human nodded.

"True. But they say, this time it's serious. You shouldn't be here when the big showdown begins."

"When?" Arrhae asked, truly worried now. She knew all too well that Starfleet would treat her as a Romulan spy. That meant endless investigations and most likely a lifelong sentence on some penal colony, as she didn't have the means to prove her innocence. For her own people she was dead already.

"Soon," the smuggler replied grimly. "You should leave while you still can."

Arrhae felt all her hopes dwindle; and there had not been much to begin with. She had always been a realistic person, so he had expected to get into trouble.

"Where could I go now… and how?" she asked. "Can _you_ get me somewhere else? I can't pay much, but…"

"That's not the issue," the human interrupted. "The places I'm going to visit in the near future won't be the right ones for you, to put it mildly. But I might be able to help you – if you still trust me."

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Arrhae replied soberly. "Besides, so far your suggestions have always been helpful."

"You really are a brave one," the smuggler nodded, clearly impressed. "Very well. Go to _S'Bysh's_ tonight. Dress up as a man, just like you did upon your arrival here – and don't even think of going unarmed! Once there, ask for a man called Sdan."

"Sdan?" for some reason, the name sounded familiar to her. "That's a Vulcan name, isn't it? Is he a Vulcan?"

"Well, he _looks_ like a Vulcan and probably even has some green blood in his veins," the human said thoughtfully. "But nobody really knows who or what exactly he might be. He is said to have extraordinarily... exotic ancestors – and to be a very dangerous man."

"And yet you are sending me to him," Arrhae said.

"I've made business with him a few times," the smuggled shrugged. "He might be a mercenary, but he is reliable. And he has a fast ship. A _very_ fast one. Tell him _I've_ sent you. One of my associates has already spoken with him, and he agreed to get you away from here."

"For what price?"

"He owes my associates a favour, a big one. As for the route and destination, that's something you'll have to bargain for yourself."

"But how can I get my savings without drawing attention?" Arrhae asked in concern. "Granted, they are small enough, but I'll need every credit until I find a new hiding place and a new job."

"Leave it to us. We'll see that they are transferred to the Central Bank of Rigel II," Vierchi promised. "My associates have certain contacts that would work in that area. The account will have your given name and the serial number of my ship; you know that number, don't you?"

Arrhae nodded. "I do. Now, tell me one more thing, Captain. Why are you going such lengths to help me?"

Vierchi shrugged again. "I brought you here. My associates helped you to get your current job. You are our responsibility now.

That was an almost Romulan attitude; one that Arrhae could understand very well.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I'm deeply in your debt. Whenever you might need my help, I'll be honour-bound by _mnhei'shae_ to provide it."

Vierchi nodded in acceptance. He knew what _mnhei'shae_ was: the strange Romulan concept of honour that might force someone to kill a friend or a family member to save them from shame – or to wield mercy towards an old enemy. He also knew that _mnhei'shae_ was not limited to the upper classes; it was something every Romulan had in their blood. From now on he could count on Arrhae's help, whenever required.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said seriously. "But you should go now. Your lunch break is almost over, and this isn't the right time to raise suspicions. Go. I'll pay for the drinks. You have been invited, remember?"

"Thank you – for everything," Arrhae rose and emptied her glass. She still found the taste of Andorian ale horrible, but that hadn't stopped her from drinking it in exchange for the relative safety of _Thorev's Cantina_.

"Thank me when you are safely off the station," Vierchi replied soberly, knowing that even with Sdan's help, it wouldn't be an easy task. One could never know where and when S'Bysh's spies were watching. Should the pate of Daleth Station have noticed Arrhae for some reason, trying to leave could prove risky business.

But he had done for the girl everything he could. He was not allowed to risk more. There were bigger issues at stake than the safety of one innocent Romulan fugitive, regardless of how much he might like her.

Vierchi sighed, paid for the drinks and headed back to his ship. He liked _cargil_ mussels very much, that was not a lie – unfortunately, his stomach didn't agree with them. He needed a hypospray quickly, or he would become sick.

"The universe hates me, it really does," he stated, not for the first – and most likely not for the last – time, hurrying towards the docking ring.

TBC


	5. Chapter 05: More Scheming

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

For visuals, S'Bysh's quarters were inspired by the Orion scene of the TOS pilot "The Cage". S'Bysh himself is supposed to look like the Orion trader in that episode, played by Joseph Mell. The intricacies of Orion culture are entirely my invention and have absolutely no basis in canon.

Sdan's Jugalan duelling spear is not similar to the Minbari fighting pikes from Babylon 5 (this particular scene had actually been written years before B5 hit the air). It's more like the alien's weapon in the first "Predator" movie and will play a more important role in the 11th "Lost Years" adventure, titled "He Walked Among Us".

* * *

**CHAPTER 05: MORE SCHEMING**

Most inhabitants of Daleth Station believed that S'Bysh would never show up in his own bar – nor would he make an appearance in any of the other places of entertainment. The Orion _potentate_ lived in seclusion most of the time, like all members of the Orion oligarchy, ruling his financial empire through associates.

Those associates never got to see him either, though. Only his aides did. No one, aside from slaves and his personal servants were allowed in his presence. Only a few selected persons – usually visiting dignitaries or fellow _potentates_ from Orion, or, even more rarely, the one or other important business partner – were let into the inner sanctum of his quarters.

The truth was, however, that S'Bysh never set foot into his own establishment because he didn't need to. The atrium of his quarters was adjoining the bar, and he could watch every performance through a huge, floor-to-ceiling window, transparent only from his side. His quarters included one of the corridors that joined the second ring with the third one, so he could walk from the bar straight to his private rooms.

The atrium would have been worthy for a _hegemon_ back on Rigel VIII. Its walls were covered with white marble lattice and heavy silk curtains in rich colours, giving it the look of an oriental harem. Rare – and expensive – plants bought here from the homeworld stood in every niche, and a semi-circular marble platform, strewn with soft silk cushions, served as the _potentate_'s resting place. Onyx-plated, small bronze tables, loaded with selected bottles and fruit baskets, stood on the platform, in arm's reach.

On this evening, S'Bysh was wearing an olive green robe of some shiny fabric and beneath it a red tunic and a dark blue vest. Humans would have found the choice of colours unusual – for an Orion, they symbolized his status in society, just like the thick golden cord with tassels on both ends that held the otherwise open robe together upon his throat. Or the ceremonial golden ring worn in his left ear only.

He was a big man – for an Orion anyway, who tended to be stocky – and though he seemed fat, that was just an illusion. Born and grown up on a planet with high gravitation (Rigel VIII had 1.8G in standard measures) made him heavy with dense muscle, even though he never did any physical work. Here, at Daleth Station, he had to spar with his guards daily, or he would have lost muscle density. He hated it but accepted the necessity, as he planned to return home one day.

So, he _was_ broad and stocky, but most certainly not soft. His business partners tended to underestimate him (aside from his fellow Orions of course), since they found nothing threatening in a middle-aged, bald man – upper-class Orions shaved their entire body, including their head as a sign of purity – with a hooked nose and a big, luscious mouth. Not at first sight, anyway. But when they looked in those yellow eyes with the dark, slanted pupils, they realized at once just how dangerous this man was.

Currently, he was watching the usual evening performance – more precisely, the second number of the young _Mo'ari_ dancer, while sharing a light supper with his chief aide, a blood-sworn servant. The supper wasn't spread over one of the tables. A very young, green-skinned slave boy was kneeling in front of the _potentate_, balancing a heavy silver tray with the supper on his head. He had been kneeling there for more than an hour, motionless like a jade statue. Should he sway and drop the tray, it'd have meant his immediate death.

S'Bysh took a few choice bits from the tray. He didn't need to fear from being poisoned. All his servants had sworn the blood oath, which meant that should he die, even of a natural cause, the servants would be killed by his guards on the spot.

After which the guards, too, would be executed, of course. The death of a _potentate_ always meant the death of his whole household. With the exception of the slaves, naturally, as they counted as property and were given to the rightful heir. Therefore the loyalty of freeborn servants was ensured by their own survival instinct. This was a time-honoured custom that had served well for centuries, and the Orions didn't intend to change it just to spare the sensitivity of their Federation neighbours.

The most trusted, personal servants weren't allowed to wear individual names. Once they had sworn the blood oath to a _potentate_, they lost their names and were given a simple number that symbolized his status in the household. If this status changed, their number, too, would change accordingly.

S'Bysh's current First was a middle-aged woman with excellent degrees in economy, computer sciences and pharmacy. Contrary to common belief among outsiders, females of the Alpha population weren't kept as slaves by default. Assumed that they were born free, they had the same career chances as males had.

There even were female _potentates_. It was just hard to spot them, since they, too, lived mostly in seclusion. And even if they did show up, they shaved their heads like the male ones and wore the same wide, all-covering robes.

S'Bysh's First still had her hair, of course. She was of common birth and a mere servant, after all – a fact emphasized by her simple, dark clothes. Her status as First was symbolized by a special choker: a golden circle around her neck, with a single ruby in the middle.

While eating a few bits with her _potentate_, she, too, watched the performance through the large window.

"So you have made up your mind, my Lord?" she asked softly. "You are ready to make your move, yes?"

S'Bysh nodded, his eyes, full of cold lust, taking in the supple body of the young dancer.

"The time is ripe," he replied in a low, deceivingly mild voice. "I've waited for three years… and that brother of his isn't as vigilant anymore as he used to be."

"When?" his First asked; there were preparations to make, after all.

"Soon," S'Bysh replied, "but not right away. First I have to deal with the Romulan girl. I'm getting the feeling that she'll try to leave the station. She was seen with that foolish old human again. The smuggler."

"Captain Vierchi? They meet every time he's on the station."

"True. But never before have they met at _Thorev's_. Where is Vierchi scheduled to go next?"

"According to station logs to Ilyra VI."

"He won't take the girl there," S'Bysh wiped his hands in the thick, silky hair of another green-skinned slave boy absent-mindedly. "Too dangerous. He'll have suggested her another way out. Let the girl be watched."

"What if she tries to leave?" the First asked. S'Bysh's yellow eyes narrowed.

"Nobody leaves here without my permission. Should she try to leave, have her taken and brought to my quarters."

"Understood," the First made some entries in her electronic notebook. "Do you want me to start making preparations concerning the dancer as well?"

S'Bysh nodded. "Yes. I want everything ready for the time I make my move."

"Which drug do you wish me to use?" the First asked. The _potentate_ gave him a half-bored, half irritated look. He didn't like being bothered with details.

"You are my apothecary. I'll leave it to you."

"Are you willing to wait until the arrival of Harry Mudd and his cargo?" the First inquired. "I've heard… interesting things of this new, advanced version of _kireshet_. It's said to be considerably more… potent than the old one. We could combine business with private entertainment and test the drug on the boy."

S'Bysh thought for a moment; then he nodded in agreement. "Very well. I'll need time to break in the Romulan girl first anyway."

"Madame Vithra might protest," his First warned. "She is rather… protective about her employees."

The _potentate_ shrugged. "Madame Vithra won't risk what's still there from her battered beauty." His smile became thin and smug. "Isn't it a sad thing that a childhood illness like _Kasaba_ fever would prove so… destructive for other species? Most unfortunate."

"Would the pointy-ears not sleep with children, the fever had never spread on their world," his First replied cynically and left to carry out her orders.

* * *

Arrhae was pondering all afternoon, but in the end she had to realize that she had no other choice than following the old smuggler's suggestions. Fortunately, her modest quarters were on the habitat ring, in safe distance from Madame Vithra's, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to slip away unnoticed. The way Mondral had always kept an eye on her was becoming unsettling.

She still had the neutral clothes of a free merchant – the ones she had bought from Vierchi on her way to Daleth Station, for her ruby earring, the only thing of value she ever possessed – so she changed and headed towards _S'Bysh's Bar_. This time, however, she took the disruptor, she had brought from home, with her. Vierchi hadn't needed to remind her not to go unarmed; she was not suicidal. Not even someone well trained in _Llaekh-ae're_, the 'laughing death', as the infamous Romulan art of unarmed combat was called, was supposed to enter _S'Bysh's_ without a weapon. Even less someone who – like Arrhae – was not trained in such techniques.

The four-armed Terellian guard at the entrance let her in without a second glance. She didn't look dangerous; the experienced eyes of the guard could notice that in a moment. Terellian guards were practically infallible in their judgement of a person, that's why they were sought after by the owners of such places.

It was almost dark in the bar, and one could smell the weak scent of illegal drugs oozing out from the separated back rooms. Arrhae's stomach clenched painfully; she'd lived at Daleth Station long enough to know that certain Orion drugs could make anyone tell their deepest secrets – perhaps even a Vulcan.

"What's your pleasure, stranger?" the scantily-clad Orion waitress – not a green savage, of course, but one of the golden-skinned, cat-eyed women of the Alpha population – approached her unnoticed, making her nearly jump in surprise.

"I'm looking for a man called Sdan," she replied, deepening her voice convincingly; revealing that she, too, was a woman could have been fatal. "I was told I'd find him here tonight."

"In the corner, just beside the door," the half-naked slave nodded in the right direction and vanished in the crowd again, with a speed that revealed her fear from the customer in question.

The single man in flamboyant clothes sat there facing the bar, with his back to the wall as if he didn't want to leave anything to coincidence – the typical stance of a warrior… or a mercenary. He noticed Arrhae's approach at once, and his hand crept to the heavy, old-fashioned phaser pistol attached to his belt.

"Are you looking for me?" he asked with an accent that Arrhae couldn't quite recognize. In fact, it was a mix of several different accents, among them Vulcan, Rigelian and even Orion.

"It depends," she answered. "Are you Sdan?"

The man nodded. "Who sent you to me?"

"A Terran named Vierchi."

"The old pirate?" the stranger grinned broadly; it made his stern, sharp face strangely attractive. "You keep dubious company, _Llhei_."

Arrhae's heart missed a beat. The _Rihan_ title – the equivalent of the Standard 'Madam' – showed that the mercenary had seen through her disguise – in more than one sense.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Sdan snorted.

"I've been in this business too long to be fooled by these ugly clothes. Besides, I'd recognize a _Rihannha_ blindfolded in a dark room."

"Are you a… a Romulan, too?" Arrhae felt awkward, using the name Terrans had given her people. Sdan's features tightened.

"That's a matter of interpretation – and none of your business anyway. Step aside. You are blocking my view."

Arrhae obeyed. The thought of doing otherwise hadn't even occurred to her – then she was angry with herself for it.

"That's better," Sdan said. "Now, what do you want from me?"

"I thought Captain Vierchi had already told you. He said you would be willing to get me off the station unnoticed."

"Perhaps," Sdan leaned back, his glance turning from the bar to Arrhae's face for a moment, "Sit. Where do you want to go?"

"I'm not sure," Arrhae admitted. "I thought I would draw the least attention on one of the Rigel Colonies."

"Probably the best solution," Sdan agreed. "You could never act like a Vulcan convincingly enough; that would require years of intensive training. Very well. I'll leave tomorrow at 0500, local time. You can share the ship with me and choose the colony you like – for the right price."

"For sharing your bed as well?" Arrhae asked in disgust, not believing that Captain Vierchi had truly sent her to this man.

But Sdan just grinned in that infuriatingly attractive manner that didn't allow one to forget how dangerous he was, though.

"If that is what you want… I for myself never needed to force anyone to sleep with me."

Ridiculously enough, Arrhae didn't doubt the truth of that statement. Sdan was practically radiating sexual magnetism – the sort of predatory attractiveness few could withstand, regardless of race or gender.

"However, I had something different in mind," the mercenary continued. "Can you handle the navigation controls of a starship?"

"Not very well," Arrhae admitted. "I've flown small interplanetary shuttles, but nothing bigger."

"The principle is basically the same," Sdan answered. "You'll learn quickly. Fact is, I have a new assignment, and I need a co-pilot. Accompany me on this trip, and I'll take you wherever you want to go afterwards."

"What sort of assignment is that?" Arrhae asked, a little suspiciously. "And just how big is the chance that I'd get killed?"

Sdan laughed. "It's not a dangerous job – for a change. "I've been hired to bring the youngest daughter of the ruling House of Elas to visit her sister, the Dohlman. Who, for her part, had been recently married off to the planetary leader of Troyius, as part of the peace agreement between the two warring worlds."

"What do you need me for, then? I'm sure this is not the first such mission for you."

"That is true. But having another female on board would make my job a lot easier. Elasian women have a bossy attitude towards males."

Arrhae nodded. She was used to deal with short-tempered noblewomen. She could do this – and earn her journey to safety.

"All right," she said," I'll do it. Will you take me to Rigel II afterwards?"

"Sure, it practically lies on my way. I live on Rigel IV – theoretically, at least. I haven't been there for years. It's settled then. Be at docking bay 6 at 0500 tomorrow. Do you have much stuff with you?"

"Only a small travelling bag."

"Good," suddenly, Sdan grinned again. "As you'll see for yourself, I don't have much room on board the _T'Dit_."

* * *

Diego Sanchez had been waiting for this particular message since last month. They all had been preparing themselves for the signal, which would finally bring this assignment to an end.

All necessary preparations had been made. All data had been collected. Hard proof had been verified; their men had been slowly, carefully infiltrating the station. Everything was ready. If they didn't make any fatal mistake now, they'd be able to leave this accursed place, soon.

He was surprised a little that Ben had found it necessary to deliver the message in person. But Lieutenant Makepeace knew better when to trust his comm system. Apparently, this was not one of those times.

"This new Andorian comm tech is… well, a little too nosy, even for an Andorian," the slim, handsome Starfleet officer explained. "And he is too damn skilled in his job. I can never know when he is listening – besides, I still have four weeks of leave that I won't be able to use later."

"Are you planning to stay here… until the end?" Sanchez asked.

The officer, also known as a con man and the Romeo of the relay station, nodded soberly. "We should finish this together. You'll need every help you can get. At least I can carry a weapon openly, without rousing any suspicions."

"I wish it were over," Sanchez rubbed his temples in pain.

The other man looked at him with sympathy. "Headaches getting worse?"

"They barely ever stop nowadays," Sanchez sighed. "And I can't just shot myself full of painkillers all the time."

"You need to go to a clinic when we are done here," Makepeace said seriously. "Make a therapy. The human brain is just not designed to deal with such enhanced senses."

"Speaking of which, how are your little implants working?" Sanchez asked.

Makepeace made a wry face. "They are working just finely. It's my brain that is rebelling against them. I can't wait to get the whole crap out of my skull."

"You are lucky," Sanchez murmured. "At least your changes are nor irreversible. When this is over, I'll go to Vulcan for a year, at the very least. To a secluded monastery, somewhere in the deepest deserts. Won't see anyone, won't speak to anyone, just sleep and meditate."

"_Meditate_?" Makepeace replied, utterly bewildered. "You? I'll see the Great Bird of the Galaxy hatch from the mystic egg first, before I see _you_ meditate."

"Despair can lead a man to strange reactions," Sanchez yawned. "Have you met Jon already?"

Makepeace shook his head. "That would be unwise. As a Starfleet officer, I can't go everywhere, even though it's common knowledge that my… cooperation can be bought for the right price," he added dryly. "There are places on this station where Starfleet officers are simply not supposed to go. Not even corrupt ones. But I have run into Drreg in _Horsa's Pub_. Guy looked decidedly unhappy."

"He's not in a good shape," Sanchez nodded. "None of us are. We are starting to slip – in small things, like using the wrong names or reacting instinctively, instead of the way we should. This assignment has gone on too long. Thank God it's going to end, or we'd break down, one after another."

"How is Jon enduring the strain?" Makepeace asked. Sanchez shrugged.

"He's behaving like a hard-nosed bastard. Like a drill sergeant in some boot camp. It's understandable to an extent, considering that he is the one ultimately responsible for the success of our mission, but it's not always easy to bear with him. He's chewed out Drreg a couple of days ago so badly the poor guy needed hours to recover."

"What about 'Lena?" Makepeace asked.

"_Nina_," Sanchez corrected warningly. "Be careful, Ben, things are more… delicate here than they are on that relay station of yours. She's doing well – better than any of us, in fact. Everyone fears her foul Klingon tempers."

They both laughed, but Sanchez noticed the wistful smile on the other man's face.

"It's really over between the two of you, isn't it?" he asked softly.

Makepeace nodded. "This job doesn't support family life. We agreed that we wouldn't renew the marriage contract. Separation in friendship… that sort of thing."

"That's sad. I always hoped the two of you would work things out somehow."

"So did I. But it apparently wasn't meant to be," Makepeace shrugged in defeat. "Our feelings haven't changed that much, you know. It's jut that in this job of ours… well, we don't have the freedom of making any promises to each other."

"True enough," Sanchez agreed with some melancholy. "One just doesn't realize these things when one signs up. And when you finally understand the price you'll have to pay, it's usually too late."

"Have you… have you ever regretted your choice?" Makepeace asked.

"I regret it every single day anew," Sanchez replied dryly, "but I don't know if I'd choose differently, even if I could go back in time and do so." He stood. "Come, we have to go. I'm expected in _S'Bysh's_ to help keeping and eye on Jon, and you are to meet Vierchi before he leaves the station."

"He won't be here for the showdown?"

"Of course he will. He just needs to get that old rustpot of his on the logged route, switch ships and lurk around in the asteroid belt, ready to fly us out when the time comes."

* * *

When Arrhae reached docking bay 6 in the next morning and got her first glimpse of Sdan's vessel, she was shocked, despite her Romulan fatalism. The battered old thing had probably been the courier ship of an admiral once, but now it looked like it could fall apart any minute. _This_ was supposed to be the very fast ship the old Terran smuggler was speaking about?

"I see you don't trust my old lady very much," Sdan appeared behind her noiselessly, like a ghost. "She isn't very pretty, but she can take more than one would believe… just like the one she's named after."

This time he was clad in simple, Rigelian-style dark garb and wore his long hair in a tight ponytail, which seemed to change his whole appearance, making him look like a _rakolkh_, this quick and cruel, hawk-like bird-of-prey that lived in the mountains of _ch'Havran_'s northern continent. The only unusual piece of his clothing was a thick, Vulcan-style leather west that covered his torso down to mid-thigh – and a bronze… staff in his right hand, unadorned, about a meter long. In his other hand he carried a large travelling bag.

"You are admirably punctual," he added with a thin smile. "We can start in a minute."

"You maybe… but not _that_ one," the guttural voice of an Orion answered in Arrhae's stead. "That one belongs to our _potentate_ for the next seventeen standard years or so."

Two large Orion mercenaries stepped forth from the shadows of the docking bay – from that big, burly sort that was specially bred in pirate camps for fighting purposes only. They mental abilities could rarely handle the concept of three-figured numbers, but they weighed about three hundred pounds by standard 1G… and were fast, damnably fast.

"I have not signed a contract with your _potentate_, "Arrhae replied calmly, refusing to panic. Her hand rested on her disruptor, all her senses sharp and alert, knowing she'd only have one chance to fire.

"Doesn't matter," one of the mercenaries replied. "You are one of Madame Vithra's. Our _potentate_ is entitled to have any of her girls. Or any of her boys, for that matter. Don't put up a fight, little bitch. You won't gain anything, just a lot of pain."

"We'll see that," Arrhae backed towards the ship, ready to fire without removing the disruptor from her help. This was a useful little trick, one she had learnt at a very young age.

But she didn't need her weapon, after all, although things happened so fast that she needed some tome afterwards to analyse what _had_ actually happened. She saw Sdan sweep by, like a bizarrely elongated shadow; then something swirled around in the air like an angry insect, then something fell with a loud _thud_ – and the two 300-pound Orion mercenaries were lying on the dirty floor, with bleeding wounds and broken bones.

Sdan squeezed the bronze staff in the middle, and its sharp-pointed extensions – about half a meter each – sprang back into the middle section, making it look like a simple staff again.

"What is that?" Arrhae asked in surprise.

"A Jugalan duelling spear," Sdan answered. "The aborigines on the planet Jugal use these things for ritual fights for leadership over their warriors. I'll tell you about them later if you are interested, but right now, we should board our ship and start as scheduled, before our friends call in for reinforcements."

Arrhae had no arguments against that. To her surprise, the little ship looked a lot better in the inside than it looked on the outside, and a quick glimpse at the navigation controls revealed that it had an unusually strong warp drive. In fact, it was more than a little overpowered for its size, and Arrhae could only hope that structural integrity would hold out the strain the powerful engines inevitably put on the hull.

It had only one cabin, that included the cockpit, and a small cargo area, which apparently doubled as the bedroom. There was only one narrow cot, but that didn't matter, as they were supposed to work – and sleep – in shifts.

Sdan gestured her to take the co-pilot's seat and called Operations to check in for the start. He got the permission immediately, since his request had been logged days earlier. Besides, there was practically no traffic at this early hour of the simulated day.

"Ready?" Sdan asked, and Arrhae nodded.

"Whenever you are."

"Good. Initiating start sequence in five… four… three… two... one… and here we go."

The docking bay doors opened to allow them into the midsection (one didn't want to depressurize the whole bay when a ship left) then closed behind them again. The tunnel-like corridor kept them for a few moments, until the depressurizing process was finished. Then the outer doors opened, and they floated out into free space.

* * *

Captain Vierchi switched off the _Bianchi_'s viewscreen and turned to his First Mate.

"Call station security. Tell them, two Orions apparently had a flight in docking bay 6, as we found them beaten up and bleeding all over the place."

The clone nodded and did as he was told. Vierchi stepped out of his ship and stared through the semi-transparent walls out into empty space, where his protégée had vanished.

"Good luck, girl," he murmured. "I hope you find your place in this particular pocket of the universe."

TBC


	6. Chapter 06: The Trap

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

This chapter contains discussions about sexual slavery. If it offends you, please hit the Back button now. Thank you.

The Rigelian Hypnoid featured in the animated episode _Mudd's Passion_.

* * *

**CHAPTER 06: THE TRAP**

The appearance of the man who docked his unusually designed scout ship at Daleth Station two days later could only have been described as "colourful". He was a very big man, wearing the kind of clothes usually seen in Terran role-playing games that featured pirates: a bag-sleeved, blue silk shirt, wide kneehosens, high boots and a sleeveless leather jacked with shiny – and apparently dysfunctional – brass buttons on its many pockets. A wide-rimmed hat, adorned with a long, flexible feather and a silk scarf instead of a belt that would have been a lot more practical, rounded up the picture he offered to the rest of the universe.

The man had a round face, a curiously twisted moustache that almost covered the lower part of his cheeks, wavy brown hair that didn't quite reach his collar and a golden ring in his left ear. He also wore golden rings with obviously fake gemstones on both of his beefy hands and seemed unarmed – at least to the naked eye. Which didn't keep the constable on duty from scanning him _very_ thoroughly, however.

"Really, officer," the man rolled his eyes in demonstrative exasperation, "is this necessary? I'm just a peaceful businessman, delivering me completely harmless cargo…"

The constable – a middle-aged human colonist from Rigel IV – gave him a sour look. Members of the civilian constabulary didn't like being called "officer", especially not by suspects, as doing so was nothing but a clumsy attempt to suck up. Besides, he'd known the newcomer for quite a few years and despised the man from the bottom of his heart.

"I'd be brain dead for days before I let you pass unchecked, Mr. Mudd," he replied dryly. "I don't trust you any further than I can throw you by five G, and that's not very far to begin with. Now, gimme that phaser you're hiding under your clothes – or do you want me to have you stripped?"

"You're a hard-nosed one, officer," Harry Mudd shook his head with _almost_ convincing sadness, "You're not gonna take the word of a mechanical device over that a man, are ya?"

"When the man in question are you – every time," the constable replied, stretching out his free hand expectantly. "The phaser, please. Now."

Harry Mudd sighed, fished a small hand phaser from one of his many pockets and threw it to the constable who snatched it from the air with practiced ease. "I hope you're happy now. Can I go?"

"In a moment – right after I've checked your customs declaration. You _do_ have a data chip, I assume?"

"Why, certainly," Harry Mudd exclaimed in the tone of hurt innocence. "Where do you thing I'm coming from? Some backward planet?"

"That's a matter of interpretation," the constable replied. "Compared with the Rigel-colonies, both Ilyra VI and Sirius IX – which both have a death warrant on your head, by the way – _are_ considered backward planets. And, if I'm not mistaken, you're still wanted on Deneb V as well."

"Barbarians, all of them!" Harry Mudd declared in a highly offended manner. "Fortunately – as you know it very well, sir – those warrants are not acknowledged by Federation law."

"Which is the only reason why I don't throw you in jail on the spot," the constable riposted. "However, I'll have the pleasure to charge you for the illegal operation of a stolen vessel, as your master's licence, revoked at Stardate 1116.4, hasn't been reactivated ever since. And now your customs declaration, please."

"You're a stubborn fellow, aren't you?" Harry Mudd put on an oversized frown. "But I don't mind. Not at all. As I said, I'm simply an honest businessman, and me cargo is all legal. Me personal guarantee on that."

And with a theatrical gesture, Harry Mudd handed the constable a data chip.

* * *

Unbeknownst by both of them, their banter had been watched from a nearby gallery all the time, by two persons who didn't seem to have a thing in common. Which impression, as most first impressions on Daleth IV, was false, of course. 

"He is good," Lt. Makepeace, now in moderately colourful civvies, murmured with reluctant respect, just loudly enough for the thin Andorian woman to hear. "While he is distracting the constable at customs, the servants of S'Bysh remove the illegal cargo from his ship. Did we got everything we need?"

The Andorian, pretending to look into a different direction, checked the tiny screen of her palm-sized, highly specialized tricorder.

"Yes, sir. We've got both audio and visual records about the whole operation," she replied in the typical, whispering tone of her people. "They seem to be done. Customs can take the ship apart now, piece by piece, and they won't find a thing."

"At least nothing that Harry Mudd doesn't want them to find," Makepeace flipped his communicator open. "Diego? Ben. The package has reached its destination."

"Understood," came the clipped answer. "Move off to the next observation point."

"Acknowledged," Makepeace broke the connection. "We've got to move off, Lamia," he said, not looking at the Andorian at all. Do you have an appointed contact?"

"Give me some credit, sir," she pocketed the palm tricorder, pretending to watch the argument of two newly arrived Andorian males in front of the customs area, displaying the exact behaviour expected from a lonely female. She didn't give any sign of noticing how the human walked away from her side.

She waited for two more minutes, giving the quarrelling males the one or other encouraging nod when a snidely remark was made, before leaving for _Thorev's Cantina_, where she was supposed to work. But she kept taking backward looks to where the highly entertaining argument between the agitated males was still going on.

So it came as no surprise when – about twenty meters from the entrance – she collided with someone hard enough to lose her balance and fall.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the bald, red-eyed, dark-skinned man murmured with a thick Centaurian accent. "Have I hurt you, miss?"

"Not at all," Lamia rubbed her hip with a doubtful expression on her blue face. The man extended a big, dark hand to help her up.

"Allow me…"

Lamia accepted the helping hand and let the man pull her to her feet. "Thank you, sir."

"You are welcome, miss," the man bowed in Centaurian fashion and left.

The Andorian entered the cantina and went back to the kitchens, which were her working place. Left alone for a moment, she checked her pocket and waggled with her antennae in respect. Her palm tricorder was gone.

* * *

The young _Mo'ari_ dancer was preparing himself for his evening performance. This was a daily ritual, which wouldn't have taken more than two hours, if he actually _were_ a _Mo'ari_. Which he was not. 

Surgical alterations, like the delicate ridges on his temples and the permanent change of his eye colour – not to mention the completely natural-looking pouch that protected his genitals – provided a very convincing appearance, but some things just weren't doable, even for 23rd century medical science. Not when he ever wanted to look human again. Which he very much wanted, should the current mission be finished.

So, he had no other choice than completely remove his body hair on a daily basis, by applying a special salve, including the sprouting hair on his head and his eyebrows. Which took time and repeated re-checking every day. Shaving wouldn't have done the trick – the results would look very different from natural hairlessness. Not to mention that shaving would have a stimulating effect on his hair clavicles and would make him look like a Tullinite fox dancer when he ever stopped with it.

"This was the last time I _ever_ disguised myself as a _Mo'ari_," he declared angrily to his "brother", who was just returning to their shared quarters.

The older man, for his part a true Centaurian _Mo'ari_, shrugged. "You say that every time. But you still do it the next time again."

"This time, I mean it," the dancer grimaced, rinsing off the rests of the hair-repressing salve. "Damn it, Drregg, can you imagine what it means, smearing this stinking stuff all over me, every damned day? I swear, after more than three years, I don't know whether I should scream or throw up when I just see it."

The other man frowned. "This is the first time I hear you swearing, you know. When we're not in the middle of a fight, that is."

The dancer sighed. "I'm sorry, Drregg. I hope we get this mission wrapped up and done before I lose my mind completely. Any news?"

The Centaurian nodded and handed him a palm tricorder.

"S'Bysh's people have already removed the cargo. It's all on the record."

"Good," the dancer cast a cursory look at the date. "Have Ben encrypt the whole thing, just like the rest of our data, then give it to Vierchi – he's about to leave tomorrow morning. We need to get these records out of here and transmitted to the right authority, just in case…"

He didn't finish the sentence, but there was no need to, really. They all knew how easily they could get killed during covert operations like this one. Had known all the time.

"Will do," the Centaurian said. "But let me tell you something without tearing my head off?"

The dancer shot him a suspicious look. "Go ahead."

"Jon, you said I've been slipping, and maybe you're right. But I'm not the only one, you know."

That earned him a cold glare. "What do you mean?"

"_This_ is what I mean," the Centaurian sighed. "You've been unbearable lately. You've treated us like a 20th century drill sergeant gone mad. You've been so hard-nosed it's a pain being in the same room as you."

"Have I?" the dancer seemed genuinely surprised.

The other man nodded empathically.

"You have. Haven't you noticed that the others avoid being around you when they can?"

"No… to be honest, I have not. Do they really?"

"Trust me – they do. Which is a bad thing, man, 'cause we need to protect you. Not only because you are our commanding officer – you are also our best friend. We all understand that you're under more pressure than all the others, and the unit can take a lot before falling to pieces, but I have the feeling we've never been so close to falling apart like right now."

"We've never had a mission this long and unpleasant, either," the dancer replied glumly.

* * *

S'Bysh was emphatically unhappy with the results of the recent action in the docking bay. His unhappiness was clearly expressed by the fact that the unlucky mercenaries had been found with slit throats in their jail cell. Which delivered two clear messages to anyone who listened. Firstly, that failure was _not_ acceptable from someone on the _potentate_'s paylist. And secondly, that not even a jail cell could provide any protection from the quick and merciless punishment. 

"How could it have happened," he asked his Second with deceptive calmness, "that two of your best people got beaten to bloody pulp by a single man?"

The Second paled under his yellow skin. He was an ex-mercenary himself, a huge man with muscles like a _mugato_, and not easily frightened. He usually didn't even flinch when his _potentate_ got mad and yelled at the servants. When S'Bysh was in this eerily calm mood, however, it made the Second scared to death. The _potentate_ was lethal when it came over him.

"We couldn't know that the girl would team up with Sdan," the Second offered lamely.

The slanted pupils of S'Bysh narrowed.

"Wrong answer. Had you watched the girl properly, you'd have known about her company… and her contacts. You should have been able to do something to keep her from leaving, as you had been ordered. Sdan is certainly good – one of the best – but he's not invincible. _And_ his services are available for the best bidder. Were you worth the food I provide you, you should have bought Sdan for us."

The Second tried to become invisible, which was a rather hopeless endeavour for someone of his size. S'Bysh didn't pay his pitiful attempts to look properly ashamed any attention.

"I wonder," the _potentate_ mused, "how the girl was able to pay his price. Maybe she wasn't such a harmless fugitive, after all. Romulans are a deceptive people."

"According to our information…"

"Your information isn't worth _rukh_ droppings," S'Bysh interrupted, still in that lethally soft voice. "This was your last foolish mistake. Make another one – and I shall select a new second. Get out."

The Second fled in absolute horror, as selecting his successor would have meant his immediate execution. S'Bysh sighed in annoyance, shook his head and gestured his First, hiding behind one of the heavy brocade curtains all the time, to step forward.

"When this is over, discard of him," he said. "He has his use, but lately I haven't been able to rely on him properly. He's become a liability. We cannot afford such a weak spot in our shielding."

"I can have him removed now," the First offered, but S'Bysh shook his head.

"No. Not before the ware has been delivered to the buyers. We'll need his contacts to bring this deal to its end, before we withdraw and regroup. But after that…"

"… we'll toss him to the wolves, as Terrans say," the First finished for him. S'Bysh nodded.

"Exactly. Station security need a little success every time and again." He paused, signalling the change of topics. "Have you taken care of Mr. Mudd?"

"Of course, my lord. He knows his place well enough, which is a rare thing for a human. He had a most… unusual request, however, and I wish to ask your permission before granting or refusing it."

"What does he want?"

The First rolled her eyes. "A reptilian Hypnoid."

"Really?" S'Bysh considered it for a moment. "A… costly arrangement. Those beast are rare and expensive."

"Indeed, my lord."

"So you suggest that we deny Mr. Mudd's request?"

"On the contrary, my lord. Providing him with the beast would keep him firmly in your debt. He can't be cut loose anyway – he knows too much, _and_ he has no loyalties, except perhaps towards his own pocket. But he's more useful – and profitable – alive than dead. You can always have him eliminated when he doesn't bring the required results," she added cynically.

"Very well," S'Bysh nodded thoughtfully. "Arrange the beast to be delivered. What about the dancer?"

The First bowed. "He'll be yours tonight, my lord. The _kireshet_ has been prepared, and the girls know what they have to do."

"Be careful," S'Bysh warned. "I want him willing and eager – not damaged or brain-dead."

"Have I ever disappointed you, my lord?" the First murmured.

S'Bysh raised an eyebrow. "You _are_ still alive, are you not?"

* * *

Madame Vithra was _not_ pleased to learn about Arrhae's disappearance. She was even less pleased when Denkahr discovered that Arrhae's meagre savings had disappeared from their company's account as well – and that without them being able to collect their usual ten per cents before the account had been deleted. But when she learned that two Orion mercenaries had been found beaten up in the docking bay and then mysteriously killed in their holding cells, she started panicking in earnest. 

She had been in this business long enough to recognize the signs.

"It seems that S'Bysh had an eye on the girl," she said to Mondral darkly, "and we've lost her. Where could she be? Do you think Captain Vierchi smuggled her off station?"

The champion shook his head. He was a big, muscular man, looking like the average bodyguard, but unlike the average, his abilities didn't end by physical strength. In fact, he had a shrewd mind, and watching events from the background over decades had enabled him to see a bigger picture than his employers.

"I don't believe so," he replied calmly. "The old pirate is still here, and with him and his new First Mate aboard, there's simply not enough room on that old rustbin of his for the girl to hide. No, they must have found another way."

"But who'd dare to help her?" Madame Vithra asked. "Who'd dare to raise S'Bysh's wrath?"

"I don't know," Mondral shrugged. "According to station logs, only one ship had left docking bay six in the early morning, before the Orions were found – that old courier of Sdan's."

Mondral had his own spies and contacts all across the station, of course. Providing safety for Madame's business required of him to know what was going on at any given time. And he was nothing if not thorough.

"_Sdan_ helped her to get out?" Madame Vithra couldn't hide her surprise, which was a rare thing. There weren't many things that could still surprise her. "I always thought his services were much too expensive for most people."

Mondral nodded.

"They are. There's no way either Vierchi or the girl could have paid him. Either some of Vierchi's contacts had Sdan in his debt or Sdan must have wanted something from them badly enough to do them a favour. Either way, I doubt that we'd ever learn the real reason behind it."

"Which leaves _us_ as the recipients of S'Bysh's displeasure," Madame Vithra said. "I don't like it, Mondral."

"Neither do I," the champion replied grimly. "And if Ishul ever meant anything to you, Madame, you should send him home. Preferably yesterday. He's too pretty for his own good – and S'Bysh is well known for his preference for beautiful boys."

Madame gave him a suspicious look. "You have your eye on Ishul, haven't you? Are you forgetting that he's not one of the rent boys in this… establishment but part of the family?"

"So are you, Madame," replied the champion dryly. "It has never stopped your… other interests."

"I was sold into prostitution as a child," Madame pointed out. "Ishul was sold into _marriage_, and he was of consenting age back then. That's a big difference. As a junior husband, he belongs to his spouses."

"And which one of you has managed to dominate him so far?" Mondral riposted. "He might be yours by _law_ – in everything that truly counts, he is _mine_. Has been for the last two years, and none of you ever noticed."

Madame's eyes narrowed. "Have you forced him?"

She didn't particularly care for Ishul, the boy was a nuisance, but she would kill Mondral on the spot, should the champion have violated him.

Mondral shrugged. "There was no need. All he needed was the right touch."

"And that would be yours?" Madame asked acidly. Mondral shrugged again.

"Apparently yes; after two years I can at least assume _that_."

Madame Vithra wasn't pleased by the thought of her most junior husband having accepted the dominance of her champion over himself, but there wasn't much that she could have done about that. Rigelian marriages were, as a rule, very open. As long as he didn't act against his clan's interests, Ishul could basically do as he pleased. Despite everyone calling him a 'boy', legally he was a mature adult.

And binding Mondral to himself was very much in the clan's interests. Mondral was skilled, useful and absolutely ruthless, and they needed him here desperately. Maybe the boy wasn't the complete fool he looked like, after all.

"All right," she said, admitting her defeat; she was a very practical woman. "Can you get him off-station, quickly and discretely? Get him back to the homeworld where he can be protected?"

"I have my ways," Mondral replied calmly.

"Then use them," Madame said.

Mondral bowed in mock respect. "As my Mistress orders."

* * *

In one of the back rooms of _S'Bysh's Bar_, the _potentate_'s First added the last touches to her preparations. She checked the green female dancers one last time and repeated them their orders. 

Very few of the Alpha population had ever been able to learn to at least understand the primitive language of the green savages, as it was mainly made up of various hisses, cackles and gurgles. The First was one of those rare people, even though she wasn't capable of producing all the stranger-sounding consonants. She decided to learn it, because she knew that – contrary to common belief – the primitives did have a shrewd mind and could be taught all sorts of things if necessary, even coherent speech. Keeping them in a primitive state was simply a choice from the side of their masters, because it was easier to control them that way.

"Remember," she said in common Orion, which the girls understood well enough, though barely spoke, "_after_ his last dance, not before. We don't want him to sweat out the drugs. And he'll need at least three doses. We must be sure that it'll work."

One of the girls hissed something in her own tongue. The First shook her head.

"No, it won't kill him. Not until the fifth dose. So be careful – three at least but not more than four. Understood?"

The girls nodded in unison. The First now turned to the group of common slaves. For the more… delicate task she couldn't rely on the green savages. They might have damaged their Master's prey in their excitement.

"Do you have the relaxing salve?"

An elderly woman, the overseer of the _potentate_'s slaves, produced a small jar and showed it to the First, who nodded.

"You know what to do, don't you? See that the others make no mistakes. Our lord is displeased enough as it is – we can't afford another failure."

The elderly woman nodded wordlessly – slaves were only allowed to speak when asked a direct question.

"Good," the First said. "We won't be able to get him to our lord's chambers before the bar closes – too many potential witnesses. We'll have to keep him here, in the secure room until the corridors are empty. Guard him well," she added, with a threatening look, addressed to the male slaves. "He won' be capable of leaving on his own, but he is watched by that brother of his closely. Once they realize that he's missing, they'll come looking for him. I can't place any of the guards in front of the door; that would be a dead give-away. So be vigilant, if you know what's good for you."

The frightened slaves nodded obediently. They'd protect their master's prey – or die trying. Satisfied with the current state of things, the First returned to the _potentate_'s chambers to have them prepared for a long night of pleasure.

In a different section of the entertainment and trade ring, the Andorian agent sat over her listening device and frowned, trying to decide whether S'Bysh's new plot had to do anything with the big action ahead. She had no idea whom the servants were talking of; it could be simple slave trade business, but again, it could be more. It was hard to tell without having more details.

She decided to keep an ear on the events – figuratively speaking – and file her report later.

* * *

_S'Bysh's_ was unusually full on this evening – meaning that it was even fuller than other evenings. The performances were highly professional, as always – aside from four different numbers of the young _Mo'ari_ dancer, there was a group of voluptuous, belly-dancing Argelian females and, of course, the usual green savages of S'Bysh's personal stock. All sorts of exotic beverages – many of them illegal – were served generously, and for a high price, and many of the customers had already begun to numb their senses by other means as well. 

"Is it just me, or are there more drug vapours in the air than on other nights?" Sanchez murmured, massaging his temples with a pained expression. He'd come to hate the bar more and more with every passing day, but he had to help watching over the dancer. The older _Mo'ari_ couldn't do it alone, and as Ben had to avoid _S'Bysh's_, there simply wasn't anyone else.

"It seems to me, too, that it's worse tonight," the Centaurian replied tiredly, "but this is his last number. When he's done and changed, we can go home as well. Where's Ben, by the way?"

"He's having a date with Nina. They wanted to have dinner at _Thorev's_, as far as I know."

"Are they trying to iron out things between them?" the Centaurian asked in surprise. Sanchez shrugged.

"I don't think so. According to what Ben said, it's pretty much over. They won't be renewing the marriage contract."

"That's a shame. I thought if anyone, they'd certainly get this relationship thing working."

"Yeah, me, too. But at least they managed to part amiably. That's more than most couples can say from themselves."

"True enough," the Centaurian nodded, with a strangely nostalgic smile. Then he sighed in relief. "Oh, good! Jon… I mean Forrd'hall… is done. We can leave this hellhole in a moment."

But the young dancer didn't join them a few minutes later. Or half an hour later. By then, they both had become worried and decided to go and look for him. The large Terellian guards tried to keep them out of the backstage area – only artists were allowed there – but the Centaurian knocked one of them straight out (one only needed to know the particularly week spot of Terellians for that), while Sanchez grabbed his well-hidden phaser and stunned the other one. They reached the dressing room without further hindrances, but they didn't find there anything else than the young dancer's costumes – if various sorts of over-decorated girdles and tiny loincloths could be called costumes.

"Can you smell anything?" the Centaurian asked.

"In here?" Sanchez asked back, irritated. "The air is so full of drug vapours and heavy perfume – not to mention the aggressive musk of those green girls – that I risk sensory overload by simply breathing too deeply."

"Well, then we have no choice," the Centaurian said grimly, "we'll have to take the risk of alarming the others."

He rolled back his sleeve, revealing a small, highly sophisticated communications device that looked like a bracelet. He switched it on, chose a rare and heavily coded frequency and spoke, "Burt to all. We have a Code Red. Meet me at Checkpoint Tango Six. This is _not_ a drill. Burt out."

He switched the device off again, hoping the message had been short enough so that they couldn't have been located. Nevertheless, they needed to move out of here, at top speed.

"Greg, we might risk everything we've worked for in all these years," Sanchez warned him. The Centaurian shrugged.

"They've obviously taken Jon. If he'd somehow blown his guise, he might be dead now, and are we, most likely. But if they are merely suspicious – or had abducted him for other reasons – we still might be able to act in time."

The other man nodded in agreement. They left the unconscious guards behind and ran off to meet the rest of their unit. A Code Red meant that a commanding officer had been captured and needed immediate rescue, by any means necessary. Eve if it meant to lose one of their important operative checkpoints.

They couldn't leave Commander Jonathan Drake, the pride and joy of Starfleet Intelligence, in the hands of the Orion Syndicate, after all.

TBC


	7. Chapter 07: The Hunt

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

The peculiarities of Andorian physiology were borrowed from _The Worlds of the Federation_ by Shane Johnson. For visuals: Lamia Ar'rhaniach looks like the female Andorian simulation shown in the TNG-episode _The Offspring_, in the scene where Data's "daughter" looked for a matching outfit.

**Warning:** once again, adult themes will be discussed in this chapter. Not for the faint of heart.

* * *

**CHAPTER 07: THE HUNT **

It took another twenty standard minutes until all people involved arrived to Checkpoint Tango Six. Despite the urgency of their case, they had to follow certain safety procedures – now that their covert operation was in danger to be blown up more than ever. It'd have been a little suspicious, had all sorts of people come running from all directions to one of the maintenance crew's rarely used workshops.

The Andorian agent glanced around nervously. She'd been the last one to arrive, and the only one who didn't belong to Starfleet Intelligence on a permanent basis. She was a security officer, "borrowed" for this mission because they needed an Andorian and because she was good. Consequently, she'd only ever had contact with whom she'd known as Lieutenant Makepeace, although, of course, she'd seen most of the others before. She'd just not known that they, too, were involved.

"We must hurry," the 'half-Klingon' woman said, "so we'll lay the card on the table now, as long as this room is still secure. Greg, when have you last seen Jon?"

"About forty minutes ago," the Centaurian, known in eyes-only Starfleet Intelligence files as Lieutenant Gregory Burt (most Centaurian officers wore Terran names, for administrative reasons) answered grimly. "He finished his number, went to the dress room to change – and vanished."

"Have you found any traces?"

"None. There were no signs of a fight, and Miguel couldn't smell anything else but the usual drug vapours, perfume and the green girls. You know how strong their musk is – it suppresses any other personal scent."

Lieutenant Commander Elena Haiduk, now, in the absence of their commanding officer, responsible for the unit and the whole mission, looked at the man known for outsiders as Diego Sanchez.

"What do you think, Miguel?"

"They must have drugged him heavily," the man, whose true name was Miguel Ortiz, replied. "I just don't understand how. Jon didn't drink anything else but a glass of Altair water – from my own bottle. And he never eats before his performance. They couldn't have slipped him the stuff in his food."

"We can theorize about the method later," Lieutenant Benito Aguilar, alias Ben Makepeace, interrupted. "We should try to _find_ him, before it's too late."

"Yeah, but where should we start looking for him?" Yeoman Applegnat, better known as Captain Vierchi all across the sector, asked. The worry about the abducted young man was clearly written in his round, bearded face.

"If I may, sirs… ma'am," the Andorian agent waggled with her antennae nervously. "I think… I mean, if you are looking for the _Mo'ari_ dancer who works in _S'Bysh's Bar_, that is… he must still be somewhere in the back rooms of that bar…"

The others looked at her in surprise.

"What do you know about him?" Haiduk asked sharply.

Lamia Ar'rhaniach waggled her antennae again. Andorians were nervous by nature, and she found it… intimidating to speak in front of so many people who outranked her.

"I… I've been ordered to keep _S'Bysh's_ under surveillance, sirs, and… and we've bugged most of… of the backstage rooms, and… and I've just listened to… to that woman, S'Bysh's First, a couple of hours ago, and… They were… were planning to drug someone for… for their master, and… Sirs, I didn't _know_ that the dancer was one of us… I mean, one of you…" Had Andorians tear ducts like humans have, she'd have been crying by now.

"Calm down, Ensign," Haiduk said in an authoritive tone that, strangely enough, seemed to calm the extremely upset Andorian down. "You weren't _supposed_ to know who Jon is – nobody was. Now, can you remember more of what you've heard?"

"I…I've recorded it, ma'am… and encrypted, as I always do," Lamia produced a data clip that had been hidden under her clothes. The partial exoskeleton covering an Andorran's torso and upper limbs came on handy at times.

Aguilar shoved the clip into his tricorder, and they all listened to the First's orders intently. The tricorder, having been equipped with a universal translator, gave back everything in Standard, so that the ugly truth became very clear in mere minutes.

"Well, the good news is that they obviously have no idea who Jon really is," Haiduk said in relief. "Otherwise they'd have smuggled him off-station already."

"Yeah, but the bad new is that he'll end up as a bed slave of S'Bysh's, if we don't get him out of there at once," Burt warned. "Jon was right – we've been slipping lately. All of us, including him. Things like this wouldn't have happened a year ago. We've become careless."

"True enough," Haiduk admitted grimly, "but we can spread ashes upon our heads _after_ we've freed him. Let's focus on the task at hand, shall we? The bar closes in two hours. We don't have much time. Suggestions?"

"We go there and take the back rooms apart, on the molecular level, if necessary," Burt suggested.

But Haiduk shook her head. "I'm sorry, Greg, but we can't do that. It seems that our cover hasn't been blown up yet, after all. Which means, we can't risk the outcome of this assignment. We have our orders – and we and a great many other people have worked on this for _years_. We can't simply quit, not even for Jon."

"Yeah, but if we can't get him out, we can forget the mission, too," Ortiz pointed out. "Once they start feeding him mind-altering drugs, he won't be able to keep any secrets, no mater what kind. We have to act before they get him to S'Bysh's private quarters, because not even we'd be able to free him from there, unless we blow the whole station to pieces. And _that_ wouldn't be exactly secretive."

Haiduk shrugged. "I'm open to suggestions. Do you have some?"

"Actually, I do" Ortiz said. "This… woman was talking about a secure room. That must be a shielded chamber somewhere in the backstage area. We won't be able to find Jon with the help of our tricorders, but manually searching the whole area should work."

"It would, if we had two weeks, instead of two hours," Burt said grimly. "That place is like a honeycomb."

"But what if we had someone with insider information?" Aguilar asked.

Haiduk turned to him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Well, strangely enough, just before our failed dinner date, the bodyguard of Madame Vithra approached me," Aguilar explained. "He wanted me to take Madame's most junior husband home to his family on Rigel V when I return to my relay station. And he offered a considerable, could I conveniently forget to register my passenger with Customs."

The others thought about the strange request for a moment.

"That's certainly… unusual," Ortiz finally said. "I can understand why he asked you – you have a well-established reputation of being corrupt, after all – but why should they be trying to get a family member off-station in all secrecy?"

"Because they fear retaliation," Yeoman Applegnat said quietly. "Remember, Sdan and Arrhae had been attacked by Orion mercenaries upon leaving the station. The same mercenaries were mysteriously killed in their jail cells, no less, only a few hours later. If S'Bysh had an eye on Arrhae – and it does seem that he had, doesn't it? – he'll no doubt find a way to punish Madame Vithra for losing her."

"But why trying to send a junior husband away?" Ortiz asked. The headaches were getting worse again, slowing down his thinking process. The near sensory overload in the dressing room was killing him.

"Have you seen him?" Applegnat asked. Ortiz shook his head – and regretted doing so immediately. "Well, I have. He's a pretty boy – well, not exactly a boy, he _had_ to be an adult to marry into the clan legally, but he's still very young, and he looks even younger. In fact, he almost looks like a girl."

"I remember him," Haiduk said. "Had to repair the environmental systems in his room; he was very quiet and seemed sad. But Madame Vithra didn't seem to care for him too much."

"She doesn't as far as I can tell," Applegnat agreed. "But the clan needs him. He's from the family of the most famous numerologist of the southern continent; he makes the whole clan acceptable for conservative circles, despite the somewhat… colourful past of some clan members. Had he come to harm, the clan could lose a great deal of support back home."

"Poor kid, just a pawn in clan politics," Aguilar, a hopeless romantic at heart, in spite of his long years of duty in Starfleet Intelligence, murmured. "No wonder he seemed sad. What a sorry existence.

Applegnat shrugged. "He still has a much better life than he could have had with his own respectable but very poor family. And Madame Vithra isn't such a bad person, actually; just practical. So, if her bodyguard does have some insider info that we could use, I'd suggest making a deal."

"That's the question, of course," Ortiz said. "_Does_ the man have any useful information?"

"Well," the older man said, "there's only one way to find out, is there?"

* * *

Mondral had been irritated all day. He preferred things happening his way, and this day just wasn't one of those on which things cooperated. His conspirative meeting with the corrupt Starfleet lieutenant hadn't gone as he had hoped – the human hadn't given an answer to his request so far – and what's even worse, Ishul seemed very much averse to the idea of leaving.

"I don't care for my senior spouses," he said petulantly, "and I hate that stupid mussel farm of Bonkuyo's."

"I thought you hated here, on the station, too," Mondral reminded him, clinging to the shards of his patience with all his remaining willpower. Trying to force the young man to obey wouldn't work; Ishul never reacted positively to such efforts.

"I do," Ishul agreed, "but at least here I'm left alone, can get all the books a I want and some edible food. Besides… you won't be able to come with me, would you?"

"Afraid not."

"Thought so. Mondral, there's nobody on that whole backward planet we call homeworld who'd care for me. There never has been. You were the first person ever who saw in me anything else than… well, than the obvious," he added, blushing in a lovely shade of green. "At least I thought you cared for me…"

"Child," Mondral tried very hard to keep his frustration under control, "I do care for you. That's why I want you to leave. You don't like your marital duties toward senior spouses? How would you like to be dragged into S'Bysh's bed?"

"He wouldn't dare…" Ishul paled considerably. "I'm not one of the brothel boys, I'm a legally wedded spouse!"

"He would," Mondral said grimly, "and he might make his move, soon. We displeased him, and he won't let us forget that. I can't protect you here – alone against who knows how many of his thugs. I'm only one man, and I have to watch over Madame, first and foremost, that's why she keeps me here. But when things have calmed down a little…"

The beeping of the comm system interrupted him. He pushed the button impatiently, "Mondral. What do you want?"

"Are you still interested in a transport?" a male voice asked in Standard. There was no visual, but he recognized the voice of the Starfleet lieutenant.

"What if I am?" he replied.

"We might be able to make a deal," the voice said, "for the right price, that is."

Mondral frowned. "I've made you a more than generous offer…"

"I'm not interested in your money," the human cut him off, "but if you happen to have what I need… well, I'm your man."

"And what exactly do you need?" Mondral asked, more than a little suspicious now. This might have been a trap, after all.

"Just a piece of information," was the level answer.

"What sort of information?"

"Meet me outside your… establishment and I'll tell you."

"When?"

"In two minutes," and with that, the connection was broken. Mondral didn't even try to track the call back. The human was a communications officer and a hacker.

Ishul looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. "Are you going?"

"Do I have a choice?" Mondral asked back and left.

* * *

He found the human sitting in the small cafeteria opposite _Madame Vithra's_. Makepeace wore civilian clothes, s if he'd had a previous appointment that had been interrupted, assumedly in a rather unpleasant manner, because his usually jovial expression was gone. He looked very tense.

"I don't have the time for the usual dance around fact," the human said as soon as Mondral had sat down to his table. "I need detailed information about the backstage area of _S'Bysh's Bar_: possible hiding places, shielded rooms, hidden entrances… that sort of thing. And I need it now."

"What for?" Mondral asked. "If you want to mess with S'Bysh's business, you'll have to find another fool to participate. I don't have a death wish."

"Neither do I," the human said, "but someone I'm… acquainted to is missing, and I have reason to believe that he's being kept there. At least as long as the bar is open for business, that is. I need to find him before they close the place."

"If you are planning what I think you are planning, then you _do_ have a death wish indeed," Mondral said.

The human made an impatient gesture.

"Look, I don't ask you to come with me, do I? I just want the info, assuming you do have it. If I find my man in time, I'll get _yours_ off her before anyone could notice he's gone."

"Yeah, but if you get yourself killed, which is a distinct possibility, what'll I have out of this deal?" Mondral asked reasonably.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," the human answered bluntly, "but there's no business without risks, is there?"

"Hmmm…" Mondral pondered his choices for a moment. He happened to have the information the human needed – he'd made his policy to know _everything_ about S'Bysh's business that was there to know – but could he really trust Makepeace to keep his promise? Then again, his other chances to get Ishul out of harm's way were practically nonexistent – which was the reason why he'd turned to the human for help in the first place.

"Very well," he finally said, "I'll give you what you want. But if Ishul isn't off station by tomorrow, S'Bysh'll learn who's taken his prey. Assuming you survive this insane trip, that is."

"Works for me," the human replied with a desperate urgency that told Mondral everything about his true intentions. The man might have been a corrupt officer, but this time he was willing to risk everything to help someone who cared for.

It was a sentiment Mondral could understand very well.

He also understood that Ishul's safety depended on the success of the human's insane action. So, since he couldn't allow that action to fail, there was only one thing he could do, no matter how much it went against his survival instinct.

"I'll go with you," he said. The human hesitated.

"I don't think that's such a good idea…"

"You can't do this alone," Mondral argued, "and I need to get Ishul out of here. I can't do that if you get yourself killed."

The human swallowed nervously. "I... won't be alone. You don't need to get involved, really…"

"I can't let you fail," Mondral said. "Bring whomever you want, but we're going in in twenty standard minutes."

* * *

Elena Haiduk glared at her ex unbelievingly.

"You have agreed to _what_?" she demanded. Aguilar shrugged.

"There was no other way. And we don't have any time to waste."

"Ben is right," Burt said grimly. "So be careful, people. Use our aliases. The Rigelian must think it was my brotherly concern that launched this whole action."

"Would he buy it?" Haiduk asked doubtfully.

"Why not?" Ortiz said. "We hang out together all the time anyway."

"Except Lamia," Haiduk pointed out. "Which means we can't take her with us."

"We'll have the Rigelian instead," Aguilar said. "That's even better. He's a professional. And he deals with Orions on a daily basis. He knows them better than we do."

"Which is exactly why I don't like the idea," Haiduk said. "It could be a trap."

"Yeah, but we don't have any other choice," Burt reminded her; then he turned to Aguilar. "Where are we supposed to meet the Rigelian?"

Aguilar studied the blueprint of the entertainment ring on his electric notebook, then he pointed out a place. "Here, at this junction."

Haiduk nodded. "One of the maintenance tunnels. I know the place. My password as chief technician will open the hatch for us. All right, people, let's do it."

They left the room through various exits – some through one of the two doors, Haiduk through another maintenance tunnel – and reached the meeting point from different directions. Mondral was already waiting for them, wearing the usual combination of dark jacket and trousers that Rigelian males of his status wore. He pretended to read one of the computer screens with the local news near the hatch.

"Corridor secure," Aguilar reported.

Haiduk typed in her password and opened the hatch. "Get in here," she ordered. "I'll go last. I'm the only one who can lurk around in the mouth of a maintenance tunnel, without raising suspicions."

"Besides, who'd ever dare to ask _you_ what you are doing?" Aguilar grinned and crawled in, headfirst. Haiduk shoved the Rigelian forward.

"Go with him. And no tricks."

"Don't worry," Burt said darkly, "I'll be hot on his heels."

For a moment, it seemed as if Mondral would answer something, but he decided against it and followed Aguilar without a word.

They crawled in the narrow tunnels as quickly as they could. Haiduk regretted the absence of Lamia; like all members of her race, the Andorian had a long torso and relatively short limbs, which practically predestined her to move easily in such claustrophobic spaces. But they couldn't blow her cover. Not until it was absolutely inevitable.

She knew these tunnels by heart, of course. There was no way the Rigelian could have led them into the wrong direction. It was the exit that caused her great concern, not the route.

Just as she had expected, they came out in a storeroom of _S'Bysh's_ backstage area. She had been there before; this was a room where harmless foodstuff and legal beverages were kept, since it was accessible to station personnel. It also had the disadvantage of only having one exit, unless one took the maintenance tunnel into consideration.

"Diego, stay here and keep our escape route open," she said to Ortiz, consciously using his alias. "If possible, I'd like to avoid beaming out. Ben, do you think your tricorder would be able to find shielded areas now?"

Aguilar shrugged. "I've done what I could recalibrating it, but there are too many unknown factors. Our best shot's still the knowledge of… of our _guide_."

"There are two secret rooms that I know of," Mondral said at the questioning looks. "They are both heavily shielded, and the doors are practically invisible for the naked eye. We'll have to follow the exact coordinates and then produce a low-grade microwave emission. That would counteract the holographic disguise. We then should be able to open the actual doors by conservative methods."

"We _should_ be?" Haiduk repeated. Mondral shrugged.

"Lady, this information is two months old. At that time, it was reliable, but I didn't have the time _or_ the chance to check if it still is. As a rule, I avoid getting involved with S'Bysh's private matters. It's better for my health."

"We'll check it when we're there," Burt said through clenched teeth. "Time's the main issue here. Let's hurry up!"

They left the storeroom, checking first the safety of the corridor behind the door. They were a unit that worked like a well-oiled machine, and it showed. Haiduk knew they wouldn't be able to hide that obvious fact from the Rigelian. But if Mondral noticed anything, he made no remark.

They found one of the shielded rooms with relative ease. Two huge, green-skinned thugs were trying to pretend just wasting their time with some crude board game on a seemingly empty corridor – it wasn't very convincing. Aguilar shot them from behind with his phaser, set on heavy stun. The green savages had a higher than average resistance against phaser stuns, but if one set the energy level high enough, they got knocked off just like everyone else.

With the help of his modified tricorder, Aguilar then neutralized the holographic disguise of the entrance, and in the next moment the door became visible, clearly outlined against the bulkhead.

"Do you think the guards might have a key or a code card?" he asked Mondral.

The Rigelian shook his head. "There are cannon fodder, not trusted servants."

"Right, it would have been too easy," Aguilar looked at Haiduk. "I guess the door is yours, then."

She fished one of her useful little gizmos out of the heavy tool belt and started working on the door. It wasn't an easy lock to pick, and the fact that they were running out of time didn't help, either. Finally, after fifteen minutes or so, the door was open – and they were staring into a room full of unlabeled boxes.

"Well," Aguilar said. "We haven't found what we hoped to find. It seems more like the mysterious cargo of our old pal, Harry Mudd."

"Check it," Haiduk ordered.

"We don't have the time for this," Burt protested, but Haiduk gave him a look that could have frozen Vulcan over, and he shut up. Of course they needed to know what was in the boxes. It could be vital for their actual mission – the one for which they had spent three years on this station.

Aguilar was already checking the boxes, and his brows climbed up to his hairline.

"Well, it's _kireshet_, all right," he said. "But some new version I've never seen before. It's a lot stronger than the one used commonly. Getting addicted to _this_…" he shook his head.

"All right," Haiduk said, "get out, all of you. We must hurry; this here can wait."

The others gave her bewildered looks, she seemed to contradict herself, but neither of them dared to protest – which made Mondral think. When they were out of the room, Haiduk changed the settings of her phaser to the highest energy level and fused the lock so completely that no one would be able to get the door open again. Not without a welder and a lot of work, that is.

"That'll be secure for a while," she commented grimly. "Let's go on!"

The other shielded room was deep in the maze of changing rooms, storerooms, corridors and restrooms of the backstage area. Searching these places was extremely dangerous, as they could have been attacked from several directions at once, and Mondral began to doubt if it really was such a good idea to accompany these people.

When they finally found the right room, the door was not guarded. This fact alone was enough to make everyone nervous.

"The guards will be inside," Mondral said, "and they'll fight like madmen to protect what they consider their master's property. So shoot first and don't even bother asking questions – most of them usually get their tongues cut out anyway."

This time, Haiduk had easier work with getting the door open, as she'd worked out the basics with the other one already. When the hatch opened, the unit stormed the dimly lit room behind it, shooting everyone in sight without hesitation. It was the right thing to do, too, as the slaves, although only armed with primitive hand weapons, launched at them with a single-minded intensity that would have made less hardened people back off. As they were used to fights, though, they managed to knock the defenders off – they went down, heavily stunned, all of them… save the one hit by Haiduk's phaser.

She had forgotten to change her settings back to stun. The slave disintegrated in front of her shocked eyes.

"You did him a favour," Mondral said coldly. "The others will be dead in an hour, as soon as S'Bysh realizes his prey is gone. Only that their deaths will be slow and very, very painful."

That piece of information didn't exactly serve to calm Haiduk's conscience, but she could not be hindered by regret right now. She was in command, and the rescue mission was far from over yet. She belatedly reset her phaser and looked around.

"Have you found him," she asked.

"Over here," came Aguilar's answer. "It's bad, Nina, really bad. We'll have to carry him."

Haiduk hurried over, glad to have something else to focus on, and saw that their commanding officer was in a bad shape indeed. He was naked, his entire body covered with sweat, his pupils so dilated that ther was barely any of the red irises visible. His breathing was accelerated, too, more gasps than anything else, and he didn't seem to recognize his surroundings at all.

"He is heavily drugged, overdosed perhaps," Burt said. "We won't be able to drag him through the corridors without raising a lot of attention, and the maintenance tunnel is out of question, too. We'll have to risk a site-to-site transport, or we'll be caught."

"Agreed," Haiduk said, "but not all of us. Ben, you and our… _guide_ will return to Diego and go back through the maintenance tunnels. You can work out the details of your little deal while you are at it already. Drregg and I'll beam out with Forrd."

The others nodded and left. Burt gathered their commanding officer in his arms; in order to beam out they had to leave the shielded room first. This was the most dangerous part of this action, but they were lucky, for a change. The entire area seemed abandoned at the moment.

Finally outside, Haiduk activated her communicator.

"Dethwe, can you read me?" she asked

"Loud and clear," came the muffled voice of the clone.

"Three to beam out," Haiduk ordered. "Energize!"

Only moments later, half a dozen Orion thugs, alarmed by the unconscious bodies of their pals found on the corridor, came running in. But the room was already empty, save from the phasered-down slaves lying scattered over the floor.

TBC


	8. Chapter 08: An Act of Friendship

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

This is the actual chapter that deals with sexual slavery, drug addiction and semi-non-con sexual situations. It also contains some coarse language and non-descriptive same-gender sex. As this is an extremely sanitized version, it's pretty tame as such things go. An unedited version will eventually be posted to my website, but I can't tell yet when.

All these things do have their purpose for the plot. You'll realize it if you decide to read the story despite the warning. But if any of them bothers you too much, please do us both the favour and hit the Back button. Thank you.

* * *

**CHAPTER 08: AN ACT OF FRIENDSHIP**

Thy rematerialized in the mostly empty cargo bay of the _Bianchi_ and waited anxiously for the others to join them, as Ortiz was the one with the field medic training, and they couldn't do much without him. To their surprise, he arrived alone, just a few minutes later.

"Ben is organizing the Rigelian boy's transport," he explained, taking out his medical tricorder and checking the unconscious man. After the readings scrolled down on the small screen, he swore softly. "Shit!"

"What's wrong?" Haiduk asked. "We knew he'd be drugged, didn't we? That was to be expected."

"Yeah, but this is no ordinary drug," Ortiz swore in a little known Spanish slang. "This is _kireshet_, and not the sort I've ever seen before. Dammit, I can't even try to guess where it is from."

"I can," Haiduk said. "We found a storeroom full of this stuff. Most likely Harry Mudd's most recent cargo. What else is there?"

"Isn't that enough?" Ortiz looked up at her with worried eyes. "You all know how common _kireshet_ works. This thing – I've no idea what it can do, but it must be a lot worse."

"I know," Haiduk said calmly. "That's why we need to know every single detail. So. What else is there?"

"Relaxing salve," Ortiz replied grimly. "There's enough inside him to serve all the boys of _Madame Vithra's_. S'Bysh must have been really impatient."

"What are we going to do now?" Yeoman Applegnat asked. "He'll be hornier than a rutting animal when he comes to, and leaving him like that could be life-threatening. I've heard of guys going mad from an overdose of _kireshet_, unless…"

"I'll give him some antidote," Ortiz replied. "A really big shot of antidote, in fact. Enough to counteract the drug, at least temporarily. But he'll need therapy."

"Where?" Burt asked quietly. Ortiz nodded.

"There are a few psychological institutes that have managed to cure _kireshet_ victims. As far as I know, Elba II has the best success rate of all. We'll have to send Jon there."

"I don't think this is our decision to make," Burt said. "Jon is in command of this unit and in charge of the current mission. He must decide what's going to happen."

"He won't be in the shape to make _any_ decisions," Yeoman Applegnat pointed out. "If he lives through the overdose to begin with, the only thing he'll be able to think of when he awakes will be how to get laid. He'll be crazy with need, and there's absolutely nothing we could do about it."

"Not true," Burt said. "I had special training to deal with addicts under such circumstances. It could be done."

"With _kireshet_ addicts?" Ortiz shook his head doubtfully. I don't know, Greg. This is the most potent addictive aphrodisiac I've ever seen – and I _have_ seen my share of mind-altering drugs. I don't know how we could get Jon through withdrawal on our own."

"We can't," Burt said. "That's not how it's done when the victim is an undercover agent."

"Enlighten me," Ortiz replied sarcastically. "You don't want us to send him to Elba II. You don't want him to go through cold withdrawal, either. How in seven hells do you intend to help him, then?"

"By giving him what he needs," Burt replied calmly.

The others stared at him in glassy-eyed shock. There was a long, stunned silence.

"You do _not_ mean what I think you mean, do you?" Haiduk finally asked.

"That's exactly what I mean," Burt said. "I've done this before, and the guy lived to tell the tale. Sure, Jon would still need therapy afterwards; even common _kireshet_ is much too addictive to get away from it without professional help, and _this_ stuff… I don't know. But getting what he needs will calm Jon down enough to be able to think clearly, at least for a few hours a day and to bring this mission to its end. If that is what he wants."

"Yeah, but will you be able to give him what he needs?" Ortiz asked seriously. "_Kireshet_ addicts are known to war off professional whores in no time – and we're not even dealing with the common version here."

"Centaurians have more stamina than humans do," Burt shrugged. "That's why we are the ones selected for this particular training. This is not the first time that an SI operative caught this sort of addiction. As I said, I've done this before."

Haiduk shook his head. "I'm not listening to this madness. We're sending Jon to Elba II, and that's final. I won't allow you to mess with his sanity – or his life."

"With all due respect, Commander, this is not your decision to make," Burt replied. "Nor do I stand under your command. I'm an independent operative with very special competences, working on a joint assignment with your unit, not a member of it. And I'm the only one who's ever had experiences with _kireshet_ addicts. If I say it's doable, then you can be assured that it is. And Jon has the right to decide about his own fate."

"Yeah, but he'd need to return to some semblance of normally for that," Yeoman Applegnat said.

"If Miguel shoots him full with antidotes, he might sleep through the night while the first and worst effects wear out," Burt said. "Then he'll be able to think straight in the morning and make his decision. We can plan the next step after that."

"He won't be able to sleep," Ortiz shook his head. "You know how… specific _kireshet_ addiction is. That damned thing was developed with the purpose to make the victim sexually submissive… to make them _want_ to be used and abused. It works like brainwashing."

Burt nodded. "I know. But that's what special toys are for. In his current state, a piece of plastic would do the trick nicely enough."

"I can't believe we are having this conversation," Haiduk rolled her eyes in disgust. "Sure, we've done a few… unconventional things to help each other out of some tight spots, but what you're suggesting is _not_ help. It's feeding his addiction!"

"No," Burt said quietly. "It's giving him a chance to choose."

"It _might_ work," Ortiz said after some more thought. "Maybe we should give it a try. What do you think?"

Haiduk threw her hands over her head in exasperation. "People, this ain't a democracy. With Jon incapacitated, _I am_ the ranking officer here, and it's my responsibility to get the job done. We could discuss Jon's right to decide above his own life until we turn bluer than Lamia, but the fact is and remains that when it comes to the success or failure of this mission, the decision is _mine_, not his. I'm sorry about what happened to him, in fact, we've been friends a lot longer that you've known him, but if you think you can emotionally blackmail me into anything _you'd_ like to happen, think again!"

"I can't believe you wouldn't give him a chance," Burt said through gritted teeth. Haiduk gave him an icy glare.

"You might not be a member of our unit, Lieutenant, but Commander Drake is. He knows and respects the chain of command, and he'd be the first to tell you that I'm in charge here. If you can't accept that simple fact, you have probably worked alone for too long. Maybe you need to serve as a simple security officer on a starship for a while again, in order to set your priorities straight."

Everyone who knew Haiduk well enough also knew that this was not an empty threat. She had enough influence in Starfleet Security to have Burt transported to a patrol ship along the Neutral Zone and let him rot there for years. And she was well within her rights to do so, as Burt had clearly overstepped his area of competence. He had no right to challenge her authority, while all she was doing was to try and get their actual job done.

"Lieutenant," Yeoman Applegnat warned him quietly, "she's right. If I were you, I'd back off now, while I still can."

Burt opened his mouth for an angry riposte – then he decided against it and all he gave was a small, tense nod.

"A wise decision," Haiduk said grimly. "Now, Yeoman, I'd like you to perform another site-to-site transport. I want to keep Jon in my own quarters, for the time being. Given my reputation, they probably won't look for him there. And my security measures are the tightest ones on the entire station."

Applegnat nodded, starting to recalibrate the site-to-site transporter. It was a small, harmless-looking device, still in experimental status, used by undercover units in cases of extreme need only.

"Have you shut down security in your quarters?" he asked.

Haiduk keyed a sequence into her communicator.

"It's down now," she said; then she looked at Burt. "Go with Jon. Do what you have to do. You've got tonight and not a nanosecond longer. Tomorrow, we'll decide how to continue. Miguel, give Jon the antidote. We'll meet in my quarters tomorrow at 0600. Dismissed."

* * *

Burt watched his commanding officer – who also happened to be his best friend – all night. Drake's sleep was restless, the _kireshet_ and the special salve, a strong muscle relaxant and also a potent aphrodisiac itself, burning his insides, although Burt'd had mercy with him, cheating the sensations of his body with some very special toys. Being able to feel something – _anything_ – inside him, even if it was only the piece of lifeless plastic, seemed to help a little, but Burt knew, once Jon's regained consciousness, it won't be enough anymore.

The situation saddened the Centaurian beyond relief. Under different circumstances he would have enjoyed an intimate encounter with his commanding officer greatly. Centaurians not having a gender preference, unless it was a matter of procreation, he'd lusted after Jon for a long time. Having to watch the graceful body every night, swaying seductively on the stage, practically nude, could do that to a guy. For times uncountable had he fantasized about having sex with Jon. It wouldn't have changed their working relationship a bit. Centaurians could make a clear difference between love and simple lust, and they saw nothing wrong with the latter.

But he also the fact that it wasn't going to happen. Jon was no virgin to male lovers (no professional dancer had ever been, not in the circles they usually worked, that is) but he simply wasn't interested in men. He liked women, and his youthful experiences with his own gender belonged to the past. Humans were… different in this matter.

It took almost six hours until Drake finally managed to resurface somehow from his drug-induced haze. The artificially-coloured, deep red eyes became as clear as it could be expected in his current state, and he looked at Burt in confusion.

"Greg? What happened?"

"What do you remember?" Burt asked back. Drake shrugged.

"I finished my last number. Went to the dressing room to change. Those green girls were there again – they behaved as if they were in the rut. One of them… scratched me with a… sharp fingernail… on the forearm… and I don't know anything after that."

"No wonder," Burt said grimly. "That explains how they got _kireshet_ into your system. It must have been under her fingernail."

Drake' face became grey as he slowly understood the ramifications.

"_Kireshet_? Oh God… have I been _imprinted_ already?"

He knew as well as the others how the psycho-active drug worked. It influenced the lust centre of the humanoid brain, making the recipient sexually dependent from his or her bed partner, after getting hooked on it.

Burt shook his head. "Not yet. But it comes worse. You weren't given the common drug… it's a new, advanced version of it; a very potent one. If you want to complete our mission here… well, you know what the choices are."

Drake nodded, rubbing his rear absently.

"I do feel as if I'd been nailed to the mattress repeatedly," he said. "Have you plugged me?"

"For the whole night," Burt admitted, "Otherwise you'd have gone mad. According to Miguel's readings, you were given a triple dose from the advanced version – _and_ they've already prepared you for the taking. We got to you in the last minute.

"Thank God," Drake said. "It surprises me that my head is relatively clear, though."

"Miguel shot you with a heavy dose of the antidote," Burt explained, "but the ugly truth is, we don't know what this new drug is like, what it can do. It's best to expect the worst. Once the antidote wears off… well, you know what's likely to happen."

Drake nodded. Of course he knew. They all did. During their three-year-stay on Daleth Station, they had seen enough bed slaves to estimate the effect of the drug, even that of the new version. _Kireshet_ was _kireshet_. The only difference lay in the strength of it.

"We must hurry up, though," Burt warned him. "The antidote is going to wear off soon – in thirty standard minutes or even less – and when _that_ happens, you won't be able to think straight anymore."

"I know. What are the options?"

"Well, we can put you into a stasis chamber and ship you off to Elba II as Commander Haiduk suggested…"

"No way," Drake said. "I know she only wants the best, for me and for the mission, too, but we have worked on this assignment for three years. I want to finish it!"

"We could finish it without you," Burt offered, playing devil's advocate. "It wouldn't be easy – but doable."

"No, it would be not," Drake said. "I'm the only one who can give the necessary guarantees all our contacts – nobody else is empowered to do so, nor would all the involved players trust anyone else. No, Greg, I must do this. We've come this far – we can't back off now, so close to our goal. This particular branch of the Orion Syndicate must be cut off, and I won't let S'Bysh hinder me in that which has to be done."

"You _are_ aware of the possible risks, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. I might be drugged, Greg, but at the moment my brain seems to be functioning well enough."

"Well, in that case… you know what the only other choice is…"

"I can imagine," Drake sighed; then he looked at Burt and asked. "You?"

"I'm the only one with a special training for such cases," said Burt. "But I must warn you, Jon. It's gonna be brutal, for both of us."

"I know," Drake said, "And I'm grateful that you're willing to do this for me. It's not what you imagined it would be, is it?"

"What are you talking about?" Burt stared at him in shock. Drake smiled wryly.

"Greg, I used to be a professional dancer. I can notice when someone has the hots for me. You were very discreet, but your eyes betrayed you every time you watched me dancing."

"You knew…" Burt murmured, unbelievingly. "You knew and you never said a word…"

"Why should I?" Drake asked with a shrug. "It would have only embarrassed you… embarrassed both of us. I was not interested – and I didn't want to lose you as a member of the team… or as a friend."

"Then why telling me now?" Burt asked.

"Because I want you to know that I don't mind if you… well, if you at least get something out of the whole mess," Drake answered with brutal honesty. "In fact, it makes the whole affair a little easier for me to bear."

"You _will_ enjoy it, too, you know," Burt said. "That is the most fucked-up thing with _kireshet_ – that the victim enjoys being violated. The more brutal the act, the more they crave next fix."

"Then you should be gentle with me, I guess," Drake laughed humourlessly. "Greg, the antidote is beginning to wear off. I can feel it. I'm getting all hot and bothered again. I'll need you, very soon. Do you want me to beg you for it? I won't be above to do so, you know."

"I know," Burt sighed, "and I'd never humiliate you like that. We'll get you a quick fix, before things get really bad, so that you can keep thinking more or less clearly. Then we'll see how to keep going."

* * *

At 0600 station time, the others arrived to Haiduk's quarters for the long-overdue debriefing. They were relieved to see their commanding officer in a relatively sane state, and Lt. Comdr. Haiduk accepted his decision without protest, although she obviously still found it a very bad idea.

Aguilar came a little late – he looked tired but content.

"I've kept up our side of the bargain," he reported. "Brought that boy to Rigel V and delivered him to his family safely. I think I've broken the speed record within a planetary system."

"What boy? Where did you bring him?" Drake asked in surprise.

Aguilar gave him a short but thorough report of the most recent events. Drake looked from him to Haiduk disbelievingly.

"You've made a deal with Madame Vithra's bodyguard?" he repeated. "Do you know in what kind of situation does that put us?"

"I'm not a fool," Aguilar replied angrily. "I thought it's still the lesser evil to exchange… favours with the Rigelians than to leave you to become a recipient of S'Bysh's famous hospitality."

Drake rolled his eyes. "Great… just what we needed. Compromising our credibility by making deals with the local scum."

"Jon, be reasonable," Haiduk said. "Ben wasn't the one to approach the Rigelian – it was the other way round. And we couldn't risk leaving you in S'Bysh's captivity. Aside from the personal consequences, they'd have turned your mind inside out with those drugs, and we could have forgotten the entire mission. So calm down and let us discuss the participation of our Tellarite friends in the next step, shall we?"

Everyone grinned, and they went back to planning the big showdown. Work made considerable progress in the next hour and a half – until the next attack hit Drake without warning.

"We'll have to call a break," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm afraid I need my next fix."

Half an hour and a fast, rough coupling later (followed by another round with the dermal regenerator), when they returned to Haiduk's quarters, Drake looked well enough again, though his eyes were haunted.

"This is not good," Haiduk said. "Greg won't be able to keep up with your ravenous appetites at this rate. He might have more stamina than a human, but he's not a machine."

"Believe me, I'm trying to hold back," Drake hissed, "but if you expect me to function as usual, there's no way around me getting laid frequently. Otherwise I'd turn into a whimpering idiot within the current day."

"No, you'd turn violent and self-destructive," Ortiz corrected dryly, "but don't worry, the time slots between two attacks will grow as the effect of the drugs wears off. I'd like to avoid shooting you with antidotes – they could become just as addictive as the drug itself, after a while."

"Then leave them entirely."

"I can't do that, Jon. We all agreed that you'll need to return to _S'Bysh's_, according to your contract, as if nothing happened. The evening performance'll be the riskiest part, with all those drug vapours in the air of the theatre. Even if they are not as bad as _kireshet_, they will influence you to an extent. Probably even trigger an attack. Greg should wait in the dressing room with you, so that you could have a quick fix between numbers if necessary."

"But what if Greg can't keep up with him?" Aguilar asked. "I know, the whole team screwing our commanding officer isn't how teamwork is usually defined, but could we… erm… help out? You all know that I usually don't sleep with men, but…"

Ortiz shook his head. "That won't work. Ben. Jon is _imprinted_ on Greg now – the drug causes a very specific addiction. I'd suggest plugs; at least they won't give him the impression of cheating on his master."

"His… master?" Aguilar repeated in shock. Ortiz shrugged.

"_Kireshet_ has been developed to create this specific sort of dependence. Until Jon goes through withdrawal, Greg _is_ his master. He'll be fixated on Dreg completely and his satisfaction can come from Greg alone. That's how it works. I'm sorry, but there's nothing any of us could do about it."

Aguilar nodded his understanding, not quite able to hide his relief. Under different circumstances it'd have been funny.

"Well, it is as it is," Drake shrugged. "The endgame starts in four days – we'll have to cope somehow."

"True enough," Haiduk nodded. "But just so that it's clear, Jon: after it's done, you _are_ going to Elba II, even if I have to go to your father to get it done."

Drake grinned at her. "Deal."

* * *

Nobody seemed surprised when the young _mo'ari_ dancer appeared on stage in _S'Bysh's_ on the next evening, as punctual as always. The customers didn't have a reason to be surprised – the performance was scheduled, after all – and the personnel valued their lives too much to let anyone notice that something unexpected had happened.

Everything seemed to work as always – with the meaningful absence of the _potentate_'s First. _And_ his Second's. It seemed as if they had vanished into thin air – which, in this particular case, was surprisingly close to the truth. Bodies evaporated by high-level disruptor blasts tended to become quite… gaseous.

On the same day, an entire shipment of new servants and slaves arrived from Orion, among them a new First for the _potentate_. Like her predecessor, she was a middle-aged woman of the Alpha population: squat and yellow-skinned, with cat-like dark eyes and diagonal pupils. The only difference was that she seemed a little harder, a little more impatient. Which, from her employer's point of view, could be good or bad, depending on the circumstances and the actual task at hand. From the point of view of the slaves and other servants, it was definitely a very bad thing.

S'Bysh was in a particularly bad mood. He'd had to swallow several failures in a row – that wasn't something the success-spoiled pate of Daleth Station was used to. His servants and slaves knew this all too well – and were mortified by the possible consequences.

"Do you want to recapture the subject?" the new First, having learned all that she had to know from her predecessor's detailed records, asked. She knew how to act, should the answer be 'Yes'.

But S'Bysh shook his head thoughtfully.

"No, he said, "not yet. They're watchful now. We'll wait until thy slip in their vigilance. _Then_ we'll grab the boy. And kill his brother. And everyone who might have helped them. Find out who they were. _Nobody_ takes back what's mine."

The First bowed. "As my Lord wishes."

S'Bysh dismissed her with an impatient wave of his fleshy hand. He'd never liked her, which was the reason why it'd taken her so long to become First. She was eager, he had to give her that, and would go over dead bodies to get what her lord wanted – but she'd never be able to reach her recently deceased predecessor's subtlety. She was much too brutal, too straightforward… too primitive.

S'Bysh regretted the tradition that had forced him to order the former First's execution for her failure. Granted, an example had to be made, but he'd have preferred to make someone else pay. He'd never have another First like she'd been. One who could practically read his mind and recognize his needs before he'd have done so himself. One with whom he could have discussed his most secret plans… or philosophy or literature, for that matter. She'd been a jewel – and it was a waste that he had to have her killed.

But that couldn't be helped. Traditions had to be respected for society to remain healthy and working. He needed to get over his loss and focus on that which had to be done.

He summoned his new Second. As tradition demanded, the Second of a _potentate_'s household was always male, just as the First had to be female. While the First took care of domestic matters – including choosing the servants of the household and providing the army of slaves necessary for the smooth functioning of such a great house – the Second was the _potentate_'s extended hand in business matters. Meaning the dirty work, of course. The part where actual business skills were required was taken care of by negotiators – specially trained freeborn agents, whose only duty was to represent their lord's best interests. Only the final decisions were made by the _potentate_ himself.

"Have you opened the sealed door already?" S'Bysh asked, his tone revealing that 'NO' would be a very inadequate answer indeed – with highly unpleasant consequences.

His new Second – unlike the most recent one, a short and wiry man with a deeply furred face and cold, dark eyes – bowed smoothly. "We're almost done, _potentate_."

"What takes so long?" S'Bysh's voice was low and deceivingly calm. "You know that my… associates are going to arrive in six days' time to seal the business. The ware needs to be stretched, portioned and packed by then, ready to be delivered."

"And it will be, my Lord," the Second promised calmly. "But we must be careful. The storage room is full to the limits, and the ware is extremely heat-sensitive."

"I know _that_," S'Bysh snorted. "What I _don't_ know is how someone managed to infiltrate my secret cargo room, catch those idiot guards unaware and seal the door so thoroughly that it takes your incompetent fools hours to get it open again."

"Someone who want to harm your business but doesn't have the means to take it over right now perhaps?" the Second offered.

"And the same mystery person goes great lengths to remove my selected bed-warmers from my grasp?" S'Bysh shook his head. "No, there's more behind this. I can feel it."

"Station security, maybe?" the Second guessed. S'Bysh gave him a look of utter detest.

"Why don't you suggest Harry Mudd?" he asked sarcastically. "Station security doesn't have the necessary personnel, nor the equipment to pull something like this. They're barely able to keep the little fish at bay. No; someone is targeting me personally, and it seems they have a lot of background support, in order to do so."

"Should we call in reinforcements from the homeworld?" the Second asked.

"No," S'Bysh smiled thinly, "at least not yet. Not before the business with the new _kireshet_ is sealed. I don't intend the _hegemon_ to have a legal percentage of it. That'd eat up a considerable amount of my profit, making the risk involved too costly to be worth it."

"What do you intend to do then, my Lord?"

"I'll wait. And plan, as always. Once the _kireshet_ is out of my hands, we'll focus on finding my secret adversary. And make them pay."

S'Bysh was confident, as always, based – quite rightly so – on his pars successes. He couldn't know that the forces gathering against him would change his fate permanently. And that before his current business action would be finished.

TBC


	9. Chapter 09: The Big Showdown

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

Yes, Thrae of Kolchak clan is not only the civilian commander of Daleth Station; he is also the leader of the civilian security forces there. For visuals, he is supposed to be the same type as actor Jay Avacone (Kowalski in _Stargate – SG1_). For no other reason than that I like the actor. I think he'd look good with pointed Vulcanoid ears.

I hope the switching between the Intelligence people's true names and their aliases isn't too confusing, but of course Thrae couldn't know who they really were.

* * *

**CHAPTER 09: THE BIG SHOWDOWN **

The security office of Daleth Station was a small room, full of viewscreens, on which members of the local constabulary heroically tried to keep and eye on the supposedly criminal activities of the trade of entertainment ring. Thrae of Kolchak clan, a Rigel V native, had been doing this thankless job for fourteen standard years by now, and despite his laconic nature, sometimes he came dangerously close to despair.

His men worked beyond their strength, day and night, but it seemed that they didn't have the slightest chance against S'Bysh's organization. He had a small group of constables under his command. S'Bysh had all the resources of the Orion Syndicate behind him. Thrae was, quite simply, no match for S'Bysh – and he found that thought extremely frustrating.

He had sent official requests to Starfleet security several times. After all, Daleth Station was Federation property – nominally, at least. So far, he hadn't even got an answer, not for the last three years. He couldn't understand it. Daleth Station was strategically important for watching both the Orion homeworld and Rigel VII, not to mention the dilithium mines on Rigel XII. How was it possible that the Federation showed so little interest for the criminal machinations of S'Bysh was beyond him.

Not that Thrae would have more trust in the influence of Madame Vithra's clan. As much as he wanted his own people to finally get over the rural poverty of their homeworld – he was one of the few agnostic Rigelians – he had the suspicion that the clan of wealthy industrials only tried to take over business from the Orion Syndicate, regardless of the consequences. They were barely better than the Orions themselves. Still if Thrae had to choose, he'd have chosen the Rigelians. They were still the lesser evil.

Thrae checked the reports from the previous shift and sat down behind his desk to set up the working schedule for the next cycle. It was a complicated task, as his men were a mixed bunch, from humans through native Rigelians to Tellarites; they even had a Vulcan among them. Not everyone was able – or willing – with anyone from the rest, and Thrae had also to see that each them would be effective enough during their shift.

He was deep in concentration when the door buzzer alarmed him to the presence of someone at his door. He pressed the button that would open it absently, and saw I surprise the corrupt Starfleet officer – what was his name again? Oh, yes, Lieutenant Makepeace.

If Thrae despised anyone, it was officers that accepted bribes. Especially Starfleet officers, who got paid rather handsomely, at least compared with the constables on Daleth Station. Consequently, he wasn't overjoyed to see the human on his threshold. But a constable was supposed to be polite with anyone who visited Daleth Station.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked with a slightly forced friendliness. "Makepeace, is it?"

The visitor made a step forward, so that the door could close behind him, and took a handheld device out of his pocket. He stared at the readings for a moment, then nodded.

"Good we can speak freely…. For the time being anyway. Tell me, Constable, do you know what this mark means?"

He flashed a small, lozenge-shaped badge. It was black, with the golden letters SI and the golden strips of a lieutenant on it. Thrae nodded, his throat suddenly very dry.

"You are from Starfleet Intelligence," he said. "Now I understand why you've been on the station so much… how you could be away from your post all the time."

"Actually, I managed that by bribing my superior," the lieutenant grinned, "but other than that, you are right. I'm Lieutenant Benito Aguilar, and I must ask you to come with me."

"Where?" Thrae asked in suspicion.

"To our temporary headquarters," Aguilar said. "To meet my true superiors. You thought your requests to Starfleet have gone unnoticed, didn't you?"

"The thought occurred to me, indeed," Thrae admitted.

"Well, you were mistaken. We have worked on this action for a long time, and we'd like the local constabulary to take part in the endgame."

* * *

Thrae was a little surprised to be led to the private quarters of chief technician Nina Velez. He'd come to value the half-Klingon woman greatly, for her usefulness for the station, despite her harsh manners. He was understandably a little stunned to see he in the company of a uniformed Tellarite, an Andorian female, the two _Mo'ari_s from _S'Bysh's_, the oily agent whom he'd suspected to be a spy of some sort for quite some time, and a tall, dark-haired, round-faced human in the bright coverall of the station maintenance team.

"Commander Thrae, thanks for coming," Velez nodded. "Let me introduce the others. This," she gestured towards the Tellarite, "is Lieutenant Tathar, from the planetary forces of Miracht. Ensign Lamia Ar'rhaniach from Starfleet Security," the Andorian wiggled her antennae as a greeting. "Lieutenant Osborne," Velez introduced the man in the bright coverall, "is also from Starfleet Security."

Thrae nodded to each of them. Rigelians, just like their Vulcan cousins, didn't shake other people's hands. Not voluntarily anyway.

"I assume that the rest of you is from Intelligence," he said, "so I don't need to know your real names. In fact, I'm not even interested. Just tell me what's going on."

"We're about to crush S'Bysh's organization, "Velez told him, "and though we have quite a few of our own people aboard the station, we could use all the help we can get. In order to succeed, we need to hit on several places simultaneously – and we need the station to be closed down completely: no ship must leave the docks, full shields to avoid transporter activity, full communication silence. You're the only one who can arrange that – unless we sabotage your operations deck, of course, but I'd prefer to avoid such extreme measures."

"I appreciate that," Thrae said wryly, "but before I'd promise you my cooperation, I'd like to see some genuine orders."

"That can be arranged," Lt. Osborne said and handed him a data chip. Thrae checked it. He was familiar enough with Starfleet encoding to recognize the signature and the code added to it – one of the very few codes that couldn't be falsified. The orders were signed by the head of Starfleet's Security Division, namely Admiral Benei himself.

"Very well," he said, giving back the data chip to Osborne. "What's the plan, and what do you want _me_ to do?"

Velez displayed the schematics of Daleth Station on her viewscreen. Several areas were marked with red.

"As you can see, Commander, there are our targets. First of all, _S'Bysh's Bar_. In the stage area behind it is a sealed room, holographically disguised from visual sensors and protected by a scattering field. That's where the entire cargo load of _kireshet_ is hidden; we need to confiscate the drugs, so that we'd have some hard proof against him. His private quarters must be secured as well – who knows what else we might find there. Also, there are cargo bays Delta 4 an 5, the six other establishments on the trade and entertainment ring owned directly by S'Bysh or other representatives of the Orion Syndicate, and finally Docking Bay Theta 3, where S'Bysh's ships are docked."

"Those are many targets," Thrae said with a frown. "Do you have enough people to secure them all?"

"Barely," the young _Mo'ari_ dancer answered in Velez' stead. "That's why we need your help. We can't risk to wait for the reinforcements, although they can arrive any time now, or S'Bysh might find a way to get the _kireshet_ off the station."

"Who goes where, then?" Thrae asked.

"We'll go to _S'Bysh's_ ourselves, as we know the area best," the dancer said. "Lieutenant Osborne and his security units will accompany us and go on to S'Bysh's private quarters through access corridor Delta. Ensign Lamia and her people will secure the cargo bays – Andorians are the best in overrunning large rooms without getting shot. Lt. Tathar and his units will take over the other Syndicate-owned establishments. And I'd like you to send your people in the docking bay. As they control the bays several times a day, nobody would wonder what they are doing there."

Thrae gave him a thoughtful look. "You are in actual command of this mission, aren't you?"

The dancer nodded. "We appreciate your cooperation," was all he said to this. "We need emergency procedures established on the whole station," he then added, turning back to the actual topic. "But leave certain frequencies open so that we can perform site-to-site transports. Nina will give you a list of those frequencies. Is there a way to shut down the protective hatches on both ends of the access corridors?"

"Yes," Thrae said. "And I can separate the individual sections of all three rings by that. But in such case operations will need extra protection. That's the first place S'Bysh and his thugs would try to take over."

"Take this," Velez handed him a small piece of equipment; it looked like a portable generator. "If you attach this to the internal shielding of operations, it will double the strength of your shields. Unfortunately, its capacity is limited to three hours – but that should be enough. If we're not done within three hours, we can forge the whole thing."

Thrae nodded. "When do we launch the attack?"

The dancer glanced at the time signal of the computer. "Basically, it's up to you. Will you be able to make your move in two hours? I assume you'll need some time to rearrange the working schedule of your troops."

"Yes, I'd like to do that," Thrae admitted reluctantly. "There are a few among them whom I don't trust completely. Not by such a sensitive action. But two hours will be enough – if Ms Velez is willing to give us a hand with this portable shielding generator."

The chief technician grinned. "Will do. Anything else?"

Thrae shook his head. "No, we can handle the rest."

"All right," the dancer said, "let's do it. But it'll be a tight fit. The timing must be right, down to the nanosecond."

"Will you be able to get through with it?" Velez asked seriously. The dancer glanced at his brother… if it _was_ his brother at all.

"I think so," he said. "But we might better take… preventive measures."

Thrae would have liked to ask what was wrong with the dancer – the actual commander of the entire mission – if he was ill or injured or whatnot, but he had the feeling that the Fleeters wouldn't tell him. It was possibly better so. He had to go and rearrange his own troops, anyway.

* * *

S'Bysh finished his daily exercises, had a bath and a massage, and then he returned to the atrium behind his bar to have lunch. As usual outside opening times of the bar, the atrium was filled with musicians and servants. S'Bysh liked music, unless he had to think or negotiate with a selected elite of business partners. His new First had arranged for a light but nutritious meal and for one of the green dancer girls to entertain him.

The _potentate_ was still in a very foul mood. The message from the homeworld – from the chief advisor of the _hégemón_ personally – had been less than pleased… and that could be dangerous for his position. Nobody could remove him from the peak of his family, but his position in the Gathering, the ruling body of the homeworld, was precarious at the moment. His recent failures had been of personal nature and didn't damage his business, but the fact that he failed had already reached the homeworld and undermined his reputation.

He needed a spectacular victory desperately, if he didn't want to lose his rank among the other _potentate_s. With the profitable selling of the new _kireshet_ and the hopefully opening brand new markets for the drug he'd regain his reputation and increase his already considerable wealth massively. _Then_ he'd pay the young dancer back. For the impertinence of refusing him. For the deaths of his valued First and Second. For the deaths of his valuable servants, killed by the rescue action.

S'Bysh leaned back against his pillows, tasting a glass of excellent wine _and_ the sweet foretaste of revenge that was to come. As he closed his eyes, he missed the short glowing of transporter fields, and so he was understandably shocked a little to see the object of his vengeful desire materializing in front of his very eyes – clad in a black uniform and wearing a patch on his arm with the symbol of the only organization that had ever caused the Syndicate any serious problems: Starfleet Intelligence.

For a syndicate boss to realize that he'd tried to forcibly bed an Intelligence officer was quite a shock indeed. Followed right away by the realization that said Intelligence officer had worked in his bar for three years and watched his activities from close proximity.

"_Potentate_ S'Bysh of the family Sesshu," the officer said in a remarkably even tone, naming his official title and bloodline, "I hereby arrest you for dealing with illegal drugs, kidnapping, attempted kidnapping, blackmail, slave trading and conspiration against Federation interests. You'll be transferred to a Starbase and given a proper trial, according to Federation law. You'll be offered the assistance of a defence attorney…"

Pretending to listen to the young man, S'Bysh let his hand creep to the alarm button, hidden on the side of his dais. But nothing happened. The officer gave him a feral grin.

"No need to over-extend yourself, _potentate_. The entire communication of the station has been shut down. Stand up, please."

"I don't intend to," S'Bysh said, bored.

The officer shrugged. "It's all the same to us," he raised his free arm and spoke into his wrist-communicator. "Dethwe, Greg, your entrance."

Two other transporter fields glowed up, and the dancer's brother – or whoever he might really be – materialized, in the company of a weird-looking, barely humanoid being.

"The _potentate_ is being uncooperative," the 'dancer' said in a falsely cheerful tone. "I guess we need some more… persuasive arguments."

And before S'Bysh could realize what was happening, the weird-looking humanoid shot him with a phaser, set in heavy stun. He collapsed onto his pillows without a sound.

Jonathan Drake shook his head. "Really, Dethwe, was that necessary? I've just begun to play with him!" The clone shrugged and gave no answer. He was a man of very few words and very straightforward actions.

"You can play with the rest of his people," Burt said. "Osborne and his troops ran into heavy resistance in the bar… and in his private quarters. They'll need help."

"Casualties?" Drake asked.

"Four dead Orions, so far," Burt reported. "Six wounded on our side, two of them serious." He adjusted the small device in his ear. "The Andorians have secured the cargo bays. They lost a man and have seven dead and nine injured Orion mercenaries at their hands. The Tellarites are still fighting. Mr. Thrae and his people seem to have the docking bay sealed and under control."

"Good. Let's help Osborne's men, until the _Bianchi_ arrives with the reinforcements. It must be any minute now."

"What about him?" Burt nudged S'Bysh with his foot – and not too gently. Drake shrugged.

"Have him beamed into one of the jail cells, with Dethwe to watch him. As soon as Applegnat is back, we'll transfer them both to the _Bianchi_. Let's go!"

* * *

In several other sections of the trade and entertainment ring, the fights were still going on rather violently. Tellarites were known to fight like berserkers, with little to no regard of their own safety – or that of their adversaries. They also preferred really high phaser settings, ad due to their poor eyesight, they used their excellent hearing to locate their targets, and harder beams produced louder echoes.

Consequently, the floors of the six establishments owned by the Orion Syndicate were cluttered with dead, badly injured or heavily stunned people – mostly Orions or Rigelians, but some Tellarite soldiers and a few unlucky passers-by as well. The members of the Syndicate had their disruptors set at a very high energy level, too.

"Four brothels and the casino are secure," a panting young soldier reported to Lt. Tathar.

"What about the gaming arcade?" the lieutenant asked. That was the worst of their targets – a virtual labyrinth, with who knows how many exits.

"That's bad, really bad, sir," the soldier said. "There must be at least a dozen mercenaries, with heavy disruptors – and they know the place better than we do. We've already lost three men."

Tathar frowned. "Can we keep them besieged until reinforcements arrive?"

"We can try, sir… but we don't know if there are any hidden doors that lead out of the arcade."

They couldn't afford to let any of the well-trained mercenaries escape, and the both knew that. If only one of them managed to get to operations…

"Very well," Tathar sighed. "Go on, then. I'll try to send you more people."

The soldier saluted and run off to help his comrades. Tathar called Lt. Burt, who'd been chosen as the contact man.

"We're having a problem, Lieutenant. A dozen or so mercenaries dug themselves in in the arcade. I've lost three men already, and I don't know if we can nail those Orions down there."

"I'll send you some of the Andorians," Burt replied over the high-pitched whining of phaser beams. "We're in a tight dogfight in _S'Bysh's_ ourselves. Burt out."

Tathar wasn't particularly enthralled by the idea – Tellarites traditionally disliked Andorians, to put it mildly – but even the blueskins were better than no help at all. He hurried after the young soldier into the gaming arcade, where things were getting worse by the minute. They've lost another man before the Andorians arrived – the Orions were shooting at everything that moved, and they had the better positions. They'd reached a deadlock, and there wasn't much hope for any change without help from the outside, for either party.

The whining of the energy beams concealed the approach of the Andorians so well that not even Tathar's excellent ears could hear them, until they began shooting at the Orions. They had crept into positions accessible only for their short-limbed, long-torsoed species, crawling along illumination walkways like some large, blue insects, their antennae providing excellent orientation – and they seemed to have extra power packs for their phasers, by the fire-rain they produced from above. Andorian fighting style decidedly did have some advantages.

But even so, the Orion hugs were not easy adversaries. Two more Tellarites died, among them the young soldier, and an Andorian was severely wounded – shot down from his high lookout and broke at least a dozen bones, despite the rudimentary exoskeleton protecting his torso – before all Orions were taken out. Most of them were dead. Worked up to a fighting frenzy, Tellarite soldiers usually didn't take prisoners, no matter what Starfleet politics demanded.

Besides, Tathar's men weren't Starfleet officers. They were regular Tellarite ground forces from their homeworld, ordered here to help in this mission. A loan from the government of Miracht. They fought as they were used to, and cared little about Starfleet sensitivities.

* * *

Not that Jonathan Drake would lose any sleep over a few dead Orions. Personal unpleasantries aside, he belonged to Starfleet Intelligence – a section of considerably less noble idealism than any other Fleet division. They did all the dirty work not even Starfleet Security would do – or be allowed to know about. Though formally they still belonged to the Security Division, they had special allowances and rules. Not even Counteradmiral Nogura knew everything about their missions. There were many details better left unaddressed. The only person ever learning about all of them was the commanding officer of Starfleet Intelligence. And not even he kept records of everything.

Consequently, when the station was finally secured, they got rid of the dead Orions by simply beaming the bodies into space, without rematerializing them. The only trace of them was a record in Jon's specially encrypted tricorder, with numbers and pictures. For statistic purposes.

On their side, they lost six Tellarite soldiers, an Andorian, two of Lt. Osborne's security officers, and a hot-headed Centaurian from the reinforcements brought in by the _Bianchi_ in the last minute. There were four civilian casualties as well, and they also had a dozen wounded, some of them quite seriously. But Ortiz assured his superiors that they'd live – if brought to the nearest Starbase immediately.

"Good," Jon sank onto a chair, his entire body stiff and hurting. He'd fought like a madman, trying to work all the accumulated frustration out of his system, but with little results. "Elena, call Headquarters for the transport ship. I don't want to keep S'Bysh longer aboard the _Bianchi_ than absolutely necessary, not even under double guard. It's too risky. His people must be watched in the jail cells around the clock, too. No more mysteriously dead witnesses. Not on my watch!"

"What about us?" Aguilar asked. "Are we being flown out of here any time, soon?"

Jon tried to answer, but his limbs began to jerk uncontrollably, all of a sudden, and he fell from his chair, shaking on the floor badly. Ortiz practically leaped over the table to reach him, switching on the tricorder – and frowned at the readings."

"This is bad, people, very bad," he stated grimly. "He's going into shock. Damn, I was afraid something like this would happen. You can't go cold turkey on _kireshet_ just like that. It ought to have consequences."

"But didn't you say that giving him what he needed would help?" Haiduk asked, accusation clear in her voice.

"It did help – with the symptoms," Ortiz replied through gritted teeth, shooting Jon with something frantically. "But it can't cure the drug addiction itself. _Madre de Dios_, I'm losing him. Ben, where's the goddamn stasis chamber? We have to put him in, until he can be transferred somewhere with a real doctor. I'm just a field medic, dammit, I don't dare to try anything drastic."

Aguilar was already shoving in the disturbingly coffin-like stasis chamber. Burt helped him to lift Jon from the floor and place him correctly in the tube. Ortiz' fingers trembled while choosing the right settings, and he only dared to let out his breath when the lid was finally closed.

"Well, that was close. Too damn close. I guess it's up to you to clean up the mess, Elena. Jon's out of it for good."

"No problem," Haiduk said calmly. "I can deal with it. Ben, I leave the calls to you. Lieutenant Osborne haws gone to collect your boss on the relay station – and that Andorian comm tech, S'Bysh's newest plant. Michael, contact Starfleet Medical. Ask for transport and introductions concerning Jon. Greg, can you deal with the Tellarites? I'll talk to the civilian authorities and hope that Thrae keeps being cooperative."

"What about the Andorians?" Burt asked. Haiduk shrugged.

"Lamia can deal with them for the moment. I'll take things over from her when I'm done with the more urgent matters. Dismissed," she added in a military tone, and everyone swarmed out to do their work.

* * *

Madame Vithra's establishment was not damaged by the fights. It wasn't exactly owned by the Orion Syndicate – not any more than any other shop, brothel, casino or theatre on the trade and entertainment ring, that is – and Mondral had the mother wit to shut down the protective hatches at the entrance and the panorama window as soon as the shooting started. They were uncomfortably close to the gaming arcade, so precaution seemed a good thing to him.

This semi-siege gave him little to do and much time to worry – mostly about Ishul. He was reluctant to admit still, even to himself, but the fact was that he'd grown very fond of the boy. Almost too fond. He missed Ishul – not only the pleasures of his bed, but also the boy's quiet devotion, his gentle presence in a champion's otherwise harsh life.

Not having anything else to do, he sat down at the subspace comm unit and called the homeworld. The local authorities had established total comm silence a few minutes earlier, but that was no real hindrance for someone of Mondral's abilities and training. Part of the reason why his contract to the clan ran so long was the fact that Bonkuyo had paid for his education. An education in one of the small technical colleges on Rigel VI that he could never have gotten otherwise. In exchange, he was owned by the clan, until he worked off his debt. Which would take another decade, at the very least. But as a Vulcanoid, he could count on a long lifespan and had time. Besides, this was a good life for an orphan without a family, so he didn't complain. Especially not now, that the package included the pleasures of Ishul's bed.

It took Mondral less than twenty minutes to work his way around the comm blockade. He reached one of the new junior wives at Bonkuyo's mussel farm and was told that Ishul had never arrived there. In fact, nobody knew that he had the intention to return home at all. Nor was he particularly missed by anyone.

The champion frowned and contacted the spaceport of the capital – well, what counted as capital and as spaceport on Rigel II anyway. The transporter records showed that Ishul had, indeed, beamed down there, and then used the southern line of short-range solar transporters that should have taken him directly to Bonkuyo's farm.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth transporter stations, though, his trace was lost. As if he's vanished into thin air.

Mondral frowned again. This was an unpopulated, heavily wooded area, even with carnivorous animals. Ishul couldn't have continued his way afoot, even if he had embraced the idea of running away from his family. Ishul might be strange at times, but he certainly wasn't suicidal.

That left only one conclusion. The boy had been beamed off planet again, in a desolate area outside the limited sensor range of the solar transporters. And Mondral already guessed by whom.

As soon as the shooting was over, he'll have a very unfriendly discussion with a certain corrupt Starfleet officer. And the man better had a very convincing explanation.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10: Aftershocks

**MISSIONTO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

I know that Elba II – as I describe here – doesn't exactly match the image from the episode "Whom Gods Destroy". It's a deliberate thing. I simply didn't buy the idea of the Federation having penal colonies for the insane. Not to mention ones that get taken over by the inmates so easily. So, here is my interpretation about the whole thing. You don't have to agree with it. g

The events Haiduk is referring to happened in the episode "Court-Marital". Ardana and the _zienite_ mines were fetaured in the episode "The Cloud-Minders". The weird Rigelian and Orion customs are mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER 10: AFTERSHOCKS **

Clearing up after the big fight took several days. Barely was the fighting over, a ship of Starfleet Intelligence arrived – no name, just a naval construction number, and more likely a fake one – to take S'Bysh and his… associates into custody and to transport them off-station.

"Were are they being brought?" Thrae asked. As the representative of the local law, he did have the right to know.

"Starbase 11, on Minerva," Haiduk replied, "since they will most likely end up on Limbo."

"Limbo?" Thrae repeated with a blank expression that would have made a Vulcan proud. The name apparently said him nothing.

"A penal colony and a dilithium mine on Magna II, a rather life-threatening planet," Haiduk explained. "Only prisoners with a life sentence are sent there. S'Bysh will never leave that place again."

"Assuming he _gets_ sentenced to begin with," Thrae said dryly.

"Oh, trust me, he will," Haiduk assured him with a shark-like grin. "The Judge Advocate Officer of Starbase 11 is Lieutenant Areel Shaw – one of Starfleet's best attorneys. That woman has nearly managed to get _James T. Kirk_ sentenced for a crime he didn't even commit. She'll break S'Bysh's neck with one hand strapped to her back."

"Are you really sure she can do it?" Thrae asked doubtfully.

Haiduk nodded. "I am sure. Don't worry. It's not just about Lieutenant Shaw being a damn good attorney – although, as I said, she is. But we've been collecting evidence against S'Bysh for years. We've got everything documented accordingly. _And_ we have a storeroom full of smuggled _kireshet_. This time S'Bysh won't be able to worm himself out of the trap."

"I hope so," Thrae said pessimistically. Then he suddenly grinned. "You've made a fool of me… all of you. That's not something that happens too often. You are really good – and not just as an Intelligence agent. We never had a chief technician quite like you."

"I was an engineer before Starfleet Intelligence hired me," Haiduk grinned. Then she rose. "Well, Constable, I have to go now. It was a delight to serve with you."

She waved good-bye and left the security office. There was still so much to be done – and they couldn't count on Jon any longer.

* * *

Lieutenant Tathar, the leader of the Tellarite unit was waiting for her in her study that had served as temporary headquarters of the last phase of the mission.

"We've received new orders, Ma'am," the Tellarite said. "My unit will be transferred to the Tholian border tomorrow."

Haiduk nodded. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Tathar saluted and left. Not that a salute would have been necessary; in fact, the custom had been abandoned decades ago. But Tellarites were rather old-fashioned in some things.

Haiduk sighed. She hated this part of her job… of _Jon's_ job, actually. Under different circumstances, Jon would be dealing with the aftermath, and all she'd have to do would be to write her own report. But now, that Jon was lying in a stasis chamber, waiting to be transported off to Starfleet Medical, he had to take over his tasks as well.

Her comm unit beeped. She switched it on – and looked directly into the eyes of her immediate superior, Commodore Didier Drake Reed – Jon's father. She stiffened in her seat immediately.

"Commodore… what can I do for you?"

"I got your report," the Commodore said neutrally. "Good work. As soon as everything's cleaned up, you'll return to Annapolis for debriefing… and to take all of your accumulated leave for the last three years. All of you."

Haiduk closed her eyes. Returning to Earth, followed by an extended leave, sounded wonderful. "Thank you, sir."

"You've earned it," the Commodore smiled briefly, then he became serious again. "However, I do have the nagging feeling, Commander, that you haven't told me everything."

"My report was very detailed, sir," Haiduk could hear the defensive tone in her own voice and suppressed a groan. If Drake Reed hadn't been suspicious before…

"As far as the mission itself is considered, it was," the Commodore agreed. "But not about what really happened to your commanding officer."

"Everything of importance is noted in my report, sir," Haiduk said evenly. "I'm sure that Jon… Commander Drake will tell you the other details if he thinks it's necessary."

"That's not good enough, Commander," Drake Reed said sternly. "There obviously are things that you do know – and other members of your unit possibly too – but I don't. That's not acceptable. I need to be informed about everything. And if you are incapable of providing necessary information, I'll find someone who is more… cooperative."

Haiduk stood the piercing stare of those dark eyes without a blink. "By all due respect, sir, I very much doubt that."

Drake Reed shook his head in reluctant amusement.

"Why is it that every time an officer is about to become disrespectful, he or she starts the sentence 'With all due respect?'" he mused. "Very well, Commander. Have your way… for the time being. But this isn't over yet. We'll continue this discussion in person. Annapolis out."

Haiduk terminated the connection on her end and gave her stunned ex a wry grin.

"What was _that_ supposed to be?" Aguilar asked.

"_That_ was a concerned father, thinking that showing his concern would be unseeming for a high-ranking Intelligence officer and so he tried to pull rank to find out the details we chose to keep for us," Haiduk explained.

Aguilar, not being a Fleet brat, rolled his eyes. "Is that a common thing in military families?" Haiduk's grin broadened.

"Afraid so. My Dad isn't any better. Luckily for me, he's just a humble engineer, so when he wants to know something, he has to ask nicely."

"Well, in that case, I'm almost glad that we don't have children," Aguilar said. "That poor kid would have a miserable life, with _two_ Starfleet officers in his family."

"You're probably right," Haiduk patted his arm affectionately. She didn't think that Ben could have ever behaved like the Commodore or her own father, but saying so might not have been a good idea. "Are Jon's transfer papers ready?"

"Yes. He'll be sent directly to Starfleet Medical, and afterwards to Elba II, for rehabilitation. The doctors say it'll take at least two years to cure him completely. Probably even longer. This new sort of _kireshet_ is an unknown factor for them."

"Two years on Elba II?" Haiduk shuddered. "Couldn't they have done better than that?"

"I don't think so," Aguilar replied grimly. "Elena, you know as well as I do that Elba II isn't really the asylum for the criminally insane most people think it to be. There are more of our kind than in any other rehab hospital. And, what's more important, they can continue their work there. Between therapeutic sessions, those two years will be barely enough for Jon to analyze all the data we've collected about the Orion Syndicate – and to work out the plans for our next mission. He won't be shut away!"

"I know," Haiduk sighed, "but the thought of Jon caged there, isolated, makes me uncomfortable."

"We'll be allowed to visit, after the first phase of rehab is completed," Aguilar reminded her, "and we'll be allowed to send subspace calls any time we want. Besides, Miguel is going with him… for a while anyway."

"Are his senses out of control?" Haiduk asked worriedly. Aguilar shrugged.

"Not yet… but he's close to sensory overload. He decided to spend some time in a Vulcan monastery while Jon is at Starfleet Medical, which could take weeks, and then accompany him on Elba II. He needs additional training to be able to deal with his senses again. The headaches are killing him."

"I've been worried about Miguel for a while by now," Haiduk admitted. "A break will do him good… will do all of us good. What are your plans, by the way?"

A huge grin practically split Aguilar's face in two. "Surfing season starts at home in two weeks' time. I haven't seen a surfboard for what? Four years? I won't leave the water until I grow gills and scales like a fish. What about you?"

"I'm going to visit my Dad at the Utopia Planitia shipyards," Haiduk became positively misty-eyed by the mere thought of it. "Refresh my engineering knowledge. Take a good, hard look of the new ship designs. That sort of thing."

Aguilar raised an eyebrow. "All work and no play? You're a freak, Haiduk."

"I'm not the one who wants to grow gills," Haiduk pointed out. "If one of us is a freak of nature, it's you."

* * *

They were both still laughing when a big, enraged Rigelian stormed in, grabbed Aguilar by the throat and slammed him against the bulkhead.

"Where is he?" Mondral demanded. "What have you done with him?"

Aguilar was in no shape to answer, and the agitated 'champion' probably would have broken his neck, had Haiduk not interfered. She grabbed Mondral's arm with bruising force (growing up on a high-gravity planet came handy in such situations) and wrenched him away from his prey. Then, still holding Mondral in an iron grip, she looked at Aguilar in suspicion.

"Care to explain me this, Ben?"

Aguilar rubbed his abused throat and grimaced. "He's looking for Madame Vithra's kid hubby, I guess."

"Ishul is not a child," Mondral growled. "He's an adult, and he's very important for the clan. I entrusted his safety to you – where is he?"

"I took him where he wanted to be taken," Aguilar replied enigmatically.

"He's not at home," Mondral said. "Spaceport records affirmed his arrival on the homeworld, but he can't be found anywhere."

"Of course not," Aguilar shrugged. "That was not where he wanted to go."

"And where _is_ he then?" Mondral demanded. "The family must find him, before news of his disappearance become widely known."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Aguilar said. "He doesn't _want_ to be found. Not before the year of separation is over."

To Haiduk's surprise, the Rigelian suddenly relaxed. "I see."

"But _I don't_," Haiduk said warningly. "Ben…?"

"Rigelian marital law is a bit… complicated," Aguilar explained. "Theoretically, divorce is possible, assuming that the spouse in question hasn't had intercourse with any of his or her spouses for a full year. But since junior spouses don't have the right to refuse their senior partners, they practically can't leave the clan in the first couple of decades. If they try to run away, the senior spouses are entitled to hunt them down and bring them home by force."

Haiduk felt nauseous. "How… barbaric."

"Not entirely," Mondral said. "Originally, the law was created to ensure the junior spouses' safety, so that the seniors can't send them away at a whim. And to avoid them being abducted and sold to prostitution by an enemy clan. Today, this is a right the clans rarely execute anyway. But in Ishul's case, they would. They don't care for him, personally, but he's an important pawn for the clan, due to his family ties to a famous numerologist. They'd do anything to bring him back – and he'd be severely punished for tying to run away."

"In this case I'm surprised that you're not trying to get more information out of Lieutenant Aguilar," Haiduk said. "Is it not your duty to defend Madame Vithra's interests?"

"Usually, it is," Mondral replied calmly. "But in this particular case, I have my own interests to defend." He bowed towards Aguilar slightly. "I never met you," he added then, and left.

Haiduk stared after him, wide-eyed. "Ben, does this mean what I think it means?"

"I think it is," Aguilar grinned. "The Rigelian version of Romeo and Juliet… only that in this case Juliet is a guy, too."

"And you are Fra Lorenzo," Haiduk added. "Well, it's not our concern. I wish them good luck… they'll need it. Let's see now what else has to be done."

* * *

Having spent almost his entire life on his rural homeworld, Ishul found Alicante Nuova absolutely fascinating. The city lay in the northern moderate zone, on the coast of the deep blue western ocean, encircled by evergreen woods. People lived here in airy mansions, which stood in large gardens, adorned with abstract sculptures and other pieces of highly original artwork, and while the main population originated from Earth or other human colonies, there were large groups of Rigelians, Vulcans and even Deltans. The latter made twelve per cent of the entire population and were mainly responsible for the architecture and art, which gave the city a decidedly exotic touch.

The garden in which Ishul was standing now belonged to a not very elegant but rather large mansion, built in traditional Rigelian style. It lay in one of the living areas on the outskirts of the city. The front of the house was decorated with Rigelian clan symbols, although the clan that lived in it was a mixed one, containing members of various races. Two of the senior husbands were actually humans, but they seemed to have adopted to the Rigelian way of life rather nicely.

B'Atha, the senior wife of the clan, was a short, stocky and rather grumpy Rigelian woman – no outsider would have guessed an artist in her. She and a human male, whom everyone just called Ozzie, had founded the clan some five years earlier. Ishul hadn't met this 'Ozzie' yet, but understood from what he'd heard that the man was a Starfleet officer, and thus rarely at home.

As the clan was a relatively new one, thy hadn't reached yet the ideal number of ten husbands and ten wives, as advised in the _Doctrine of Lollo_, but they didn't seem to worry about it. Apparently, both B'Atha and her co-wife, the shrew-faced, pointy-nosed, good-natured Sealon, were agnostics, and the other members of the family weren't Rigelians anyway. They just took advantage of the institution of clan marriage to give their children a solid family background.

From the three male spouses only Balan Jashin lived here permanently: a rotund human engineer with curly blond hair and a ruddy face. He was a very calm and pleasant person – and, as Ishul figured out, a good conversationalist, once one managed to lure him out of his shell with some topic of his interest. The clan had only two children so far, Tessa and Jorik, both very young, and everyone seemed to accept Ishul's presence with a shrug.

"We often put up people Ozzie's comrades bring to us," B'Atha explained, while she and Sealon were busy with cutting Ishul's hair short, making it curly and bleaching it ash blond, in order to change his looks and avoid him being recognized by the wrong person. "In fact, we are part of Starfleet's unofficial refuge project. People stay with us until they are out of danger or find a better hiding place. Some even chose to marry into the family, after a while," she added with an unexpected grin.

Ishul looked at Sealon, but she shook her head. "Nah, not me. I came because I fell in love with Ozzie. But don't worry, we'd never force anyone to marry us."

Both women giggled, and remembering the hilarious situation, Ishul – now a short-haired, curly blond with artificially coloured azure blue eyes – smiled at the memory. He had only been here for a few days, but he liked this place already. The family accepted his voluntary help in the household, and in exchange they let him use their vast library of vids and data chips. Barely been taught anything else but the _Doctrine of Lollo_ in his childhood, Ishul was about to discover what a pleasure knowledge could be.

He still missed Mondral very much, but he knew he could not risk contacting him. As long as the year of separation – which had barely begun – wasn't over, he was in great danger. His spouses were powerful and ruthless. Had they managed to find him, he'd pay a horrible price for his rebellion.

But this was a good place to hide and wait. And with all the new things he could see, do and learn, perhaps the year of waiting wouldn't be _that_ long.

* * *

In _Thorev's Cantina_, half of the Andorian personnel were packing their Starfleet-issue bags as well. Thorev himself, and elderly male, watched them sadly. He had become used to so much competent help in his little establishment and was not looking forward to do most of the work alone again.

"Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?" he asked his favourite. "You are a fertile female, you'll have to found a family and have offspring one day. This is a good place, it brings in honest money."

Ensign Lamia Ar'rhaniach wiggled her antennae in apology.

"Forgive me, honourable Thorev, that I can't accept your generous offer," she said politely. "I'm a Starfleet officer, and I have my orders. But I'll come back to visit you when I can."

"I could adopt you, if that is what you need," Thorev offered. "It's not the same as being accepted by a swarm-mother, I'm just an old male without a family, but as my adopted daughter, you at least wouldn't be an outcast any longer. It would heighten your chances to find a proper mating group."

"That's very sweet of you," Lamia replied, truly touched. "And perhaps I'll accept your offer in due time. Right now, I have to return to Earth, though. I'm scheduled to join advanced security training in Annapolis."

"Just don't take too long," Thorev warned. "I'm old and not very healthy."

Lamia smiled at the saddened old male fondly. She'd never experienced so much kindness from anyone, since the swarm-mother – the _tirja_ exiled her for wanting a career of her own, instead of marrying and breeding busily, as it was expected from a fertile female. It would have been grossly ungrateful to reject Thorev, now that she was about to move on.

"I'll visit you, after my training is complete," she promised. "We'll discuss anything in a proper manner then, with the necessary witnesses. May the song of the home seas send you pleasant dreams."

Thorev replied with another traditional blessing, happy that he might have acquired a daughter for his old days – which also meant someone who'd take care of him when he couldn't do it alone any longer – and Lamia darted off to catch the Starfleet transport vessel back to Earth. Several other Andorians jogged after her.

* * *

At about the same time, back on Earth, Commodore Drake Reed had arrived to the headquarters of Starfleet Security, in Annapolis, and was about to enter the office of his immediate superior, Admiral Benei. In the foyer he was greeted by the admiral's secretary – a civilian Vulcan woman by the name of T'Rya. She was a Vulcan one rarely saw: not only blonde and blue-eyed, but due to a rare hormonal condition also massively overweight. The latter fact made her unfit for a career _in_ Starfleet – thus she had made a logical choice and became a civilian employee of the same organization.

She spoke eight languages, had several degrees in computer sciences and other archiving techniques, and eidetic memory and very pleasant, yet reserved manners- Consequently, she was considered a true jewel not only by Admiral Benei but by many other members of Starfleet Command, who'd have loved to lure her away from Annapolis. But like all Vulcans, T'Rya was absolutely loyal – and not interested in a change of jobs.

"Commodore," she greeted Drake Reed with a neutral nod. "The Admiral is waiting for you."

As the black-clad Intelligence officer thanked her and entered the admiral's office, T'Rya rose and walked over to the kitchenette to prepare the admiral's favourite tea. Commodore Drake Reed was a personal friend of the admiral's – offering them tea, even for an official meeting, was the proper thing to do.

Admiral Horace Llewell Benei, also known as the sixteenth Earl of Lancashire, was British to his bones, and had great respect for things considered proper. Therefore, it wasn't surprising that he'd chosen the scion of a family with a long military history as his friend. The Drake Reeds had been naval intelligence officers for four generations, with the commodore and his older son following the noble tradition in Starfleet. Jon had dropped the second surname, though, so that people wouldn't connect him with his father at once. He wanted to fight his own battles and warn his rank like everyone else.

"The preliminary report of the Daleth IV-mission, Admiral," Drake Reed said, handing Benei a data chip. "Just the basics, of course. A complete analysis will take months."

Benei nodded. "Thank you, Commodore." Then he switched to a more personal tone and added. "I'm sorry about Jon."

"It was a calculated risk," Drake Reed shrugged, "but yeah, so am I. It wasn't how I imagined a family reunion after three years."

"No, I think not," Benei said, understanding. "How's Marie-Soleil taking it?"

"Not well," Drake Reed shrugged again, "but that's understandable. She's a mother. For her Jon will always be a child. We had an… argument when the news came in."

"Who won?" Benei asked with false joviality.

"No one," Drake Reed replied bluntly. "I lost, though. Marie-Soleil returned to her project for a while and took Benjamin with her."

"Again?"

"She says her work helps her to calm down and adapt. _And_ it keeps her from breaking my arm for giving Jon and his unit this mission."

Benei smiled involuntarily. Marie-Soleil Deveraux, a marine biologist and still a charming Caribbean beauty, despite her age, might seem fragile compared with her 6'4'', big-boned, intimidating husband, but she could be worse than a drill sergeant when angry. Hearing her curse in French sounded like music, almost, but she had a fey glint in her eyes in those times that could make the strongest man shiver with fear.

"Well, the dolphins won't argue with her, at least," the admiral said. "But I thought she'd want to see Jon first."

"She does, and she will," Drake Reed replied wryly. "It's me she doesn't want to see for a while."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's not the first time, you know. That's her way to deal with my job. And Jon's job. Once she worked through the current issue, she'll return. Or so I hope."

"Well at least she's still trying," Benei sighed. "I wish Genevieve had seen me worth the effort. But we can't change these things." He paused, then he returned to the official topic. "I assume Jon comes to Elba II now?"

"Not immediately," Drake Reed said. "Starfleet Medical wants to make a complete physical on him first, and they want to keep him and watch over his condition for a while."

"Is that wise? He'll need therapy, and soon, if what I've heard about this new drug is true."

"It is. But I trust Dr. Piper. He's one of the most experienced physicians in the entire Fleet. I served with him. He knows what he's doing," Drake Reed shrugged. "Besides, as long as Jon is on Earth, it'll be easier for Marie-Soleil and Benjamin to visit him."

"And for you," Benei said quietly. Drake Reed nodded.

"If he wants to see me – which is by no means certain. He's always been hesitant to show any weakness in my presence."

"I wonder where _that_ might come from," Benei commented dryly, remembering their Academy years. "What about the rest of the unit?"

"First they'll take their accumulated leave," Drake Reed said. "That's six months, at the very least. Then they'll be sent to advanced training, learn to use the newest equipment. They've been out of the look for three years, after all. The rest depends on Jon's recovery speed. But I think I'll have to give them assignments without him for a while. Commander Haiduk is perfectly capable of leading the unit in Jon's absence."

"But would she be willing to step back again, once Jon's back?" Benei asked. "She's one ambitious woman – and we should support her ambitions. She deserves it."

"We can always give her a unit of her own," Drake Reed said, "although she's best when she doesn't need to bother with all the daily decisions and can concentrate on the actual work. Or she can be transferred to the engineering section, to work on the new designs; she's a brilliant engineer. It will be her decision, in the end."

T'Rya came in with the tea and the best old china of the Lancashire's. She placed everything on the small coffee table, and discretely left again. Benei sent a fond smile after her.

"She's a gem, a true gem."

"The ideal company for an admiral," Drake Reed commented cynically. "Works a lot, speaks little, never gets upset, can't be bribed or intimidated…"

"You can find a Vulcan secretary, too," Benei said. "I'm sure there are many ambitious young ladies – or young men, speaking of Vulcans – who'd like to work for Starfleet, without becoming and officer themselves."

"Nah," Drake Reed said with a nasty grin. "I can't have a secretary I wouldn't be able to frighten to death once a week. I have a reputation to keep up, you know."

And though it was spoken jokingly, the admiral knew there was a great deal of truth behind that joke. Commodore Drake Reed was considered one of the most dangerous people in Starfleet – and not by humans alone. His Andorian secretary lived in constant fear of him, and was probably not the only one.

There must have been a reason why his younger son, Benjamin, adamantly refused to have to do anything at all with Starfleet, and chose to become a marine biologist, just like his mother. Their only daughter, Desiree, went even further, moving to a colony of artists on Rigel VI, although she maintained contact with Marie-Soleil. Families with a generations-old military tradition weren't always fun to live in. Benei should know it. His own children reacted to it badly enough.

"Give Jon my regards," he said. "I'd like to visit him, while he's on Earth, but when you're not sure he'd want to se _you_, he'd want to see me even less."

"Probably," Drake Reed admitted. "I'll ask him… he always respected you very much." He drank his tea and stood. "Well, Admiral, I must go now. I'm up to my ears in the preparations for a new mission, and Admiral Nogura is waiting for my suggestions."

"A new mission? A sensitive one again, I presume."

"You can say that," Drake Reed made a wry face. "I love to visit the Tholian border – but this time, it seems, I'll have to go personally. For some reason, the Ambassador is willing to tolerate me… to a certain extent."

"And while you distract the Ambassador, your agents can move into place," Benei added with a grin.

Drake Reed nodded. "Precisely. I'll keep you informed. Good day, Admiral."

With that, he left, leaving a slightly disturbed admiral behind. Movements along the Tholian border were always a tricky thing, and Benei knew he'd have to keep an eye on those events.

* * *

The _hégemón_ of Rigel VIII, the supreme leader of the Orion Oligarchy – and, by default, the head of the Orion Syndicate as well – listened to the latest reports with great dismay. Accidentally, she was a female – a fact unknown even among most other subjects. A fact that would have caused great bewilderment among off-worldlers, as it was commonly (and mistakenly) believed that all Orion women were illiterate breeding machines. She found the 'pregnant and barefooted' cliché widely spread among humans particularly amusing – although for the majority of Orion women it was quite matching, of course.

A the moment, however, the _hégemón_ was not amused at all. The spectacular failure of S'Bysh annoyed her to no end. The loss of Daleth Station, so shortly before the takeover was completed, caused a severe setback in the Syndicate's long-term plans to extend their influence over territories that were either under Federation protectorate or Federation property. Small and insignificant worlds and space stations these might be, but they offered excellent footholds for further expansion.

Now they had lost one of those footholds, before they could have fully established it, _and_ they lost one of the sixty _potentate_s. This could cause severe problems in the function both of the Oligarchy and that of the Syndicate. As the rank and position of a _potentate_ were hereditary. Each of the sixty leading families elected the most able and worthy member as the _potentate_ – not necessarily in the linear way.

The main problem was, in this particular case, that S'Bysh hadn't nominated his successor yet. For the simple reason that there were no passable candidates in the family. He had some very young nephews and nieces, twice removed, but they weren't capable of filling in for him – yet.

Which meant that the _hégemón_ had to find a way to keep permanent contact with S'Bysh, so that S'Bysh would be able to mend family business from prison, wherever he might end up. That, again, was an interesting logistic problem as the most likely chance was the Limbo penal colony on Magna II – not an easy place to sneak in and virtually impossible to sneak out.

"Keep an eye on the trial," she instructed her First, who happened to be her illegitimate half-sister. Not that it'd mean any advantage. A First was always selected for her abilities, not for her bloodline. "Make sure that we establish permanent – and secured – communications with him. We'll need him for quite a while yet… although I'd prefer to get rid of him. Apparently, he isn't as able and shrewd as I thought him to be."

"Where do you want to switch focus now, that we've lost Daleth Station?" her senior business advisor, also invited to this meeting, asked. "We'll need a seemingly insignificant place where we can prepare our next step carefully. Another setback would be very dangerous for our organization."

"Show me the possibilities," the _hégemón_ ordered. His advisor – a first grade cousin, actually – handed her an electronic notepad, and she studied the date carefully for quite some time.

"This one," she finally said, marking the planet Thimsel. "Our operatives have been working there for several years. Our base of operations has been fully established and armoured, and we have a low-ranking local member who can take over the leading of the colony without raising any suspicions – _if_ we can arrange a convincing 'accident' for the current Federation governor."

Her advisor called up the data concerning the two persons in question, and nodded. "That can be easily arranged."

"Good," the _hégemón_ dismissed him with a wave of her small, fleshy hand. "See to it that he gets removed in a believable way. The last thing we need is a Starfleet investigation there. Does this Marouk alFaisal keep the colonists firmly in hand? I don't want any resistance when he's elected as the new governor. That could raise too much unwanted attraction."

There won't be any difficulties, _hégemón_," her advisor assured, on his way out. "Our joy machine works beyond expectations."

"I hope he's right," the _hégemón_ said to her Second, after the senior advisor had left. "The first group of workers from Mu Leonis II is due to arrive within days. We can't use any trouble from the side of the locals."

"There won't be any," the Second said. "Most of the locals are deliriously happy with their city-building in the middle of the ocean and sing the prise of the government of Mu Leonis II for building it for them. That was a stroke of genius from the Ardanans, anyway. A completely closed society enables the government to extend complete control over the citizens. I wish we could have something like that."

"I don't," the _hégemón_ said. "The same system, that makes complete control over the subjects possible, also makes the leaders vulnerable. I wouldn't want to be spied upon… or become completely dependant on technology. The absolute loyalty of well-chosen servants is the only thing one can truly count on."

"It seems to work for the Ardanans in Stratus City," her Second said respectfully. She nodded.

"Because they are weak. We are not. That's why, in the end, we won't only own the rare metal alloy of Thimsel but also the _zienite_ mines of Mu Leonis II… and any other things that are currently Federation property."

She dismissed the Second, too, and leaned back on her pillows wearily. Leading an organization of the size and complexity of the Syndicate, _plus_ ruling an entire planet, was tiring business. Especially in times like these, when her seclusion got interrupted repeatedly by unexpected events. Like all members of the Orion ruling caste, she greatly disliked dealing with outsiders. Even if they belonged to her family.

"You need to take some time off, my Lady," her First suggested respectfully.

"I know," she said, "and I will. Have my bath prepared, and some light dinner… fruits, sweets and wine only. I'm not particularly hungry today."

"Any company for the night?" the First asked. The _hégemón_ nodded.

"Yes, but I'm too tired to play tonight, so don't send me any of the boys. I want to be serviced properly before I go to sleep."

The First thought over the possibilities for a moment. Finding the right bed partner for her lady wasn't always an easy task. The _hégemón_ was choosy – well, she could afford it, after all.

"We've got a young slave from the planet Ligon," the First said. "Tall, smooth, dark-skinned, well-built and hung like a _gnuta_ bock. I deem he might suffice."

"Good; I'll give him a try," the _hégemón_ took a piece of fruit from a small table on her right and ate it absent-mindedly. "I assume you've already told him what to expect, should he displease me?"

"Certainly, my Lady," the First smiled thinly. "And as proud as his people are of their manliness, he'd be extremely eager to please you."

"He should, if he wants to keep his pride and joy," the _hégemón_ said. "But I want a massage after my bath first. Don't send him in before Tarlik is done with me."

The First bowed. "As my Lady wishes."

She left to prepare the _hégemón_'s bath and arrange a massage and the proper bed companion for the Lady. The _hégemón_ sipped wine in the meantime and plotted the next step in the grand scheme of the Syndicate.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11: Choices and Chances

**MISSION TO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

**Author's notes:**

This shortened chapter, once again, is a sanitized version. The unedited version will be posted somewhere eventually – until then, this will serve to bring the story to its end.

Originally, it was meant as an adult supplemental to Chapter 10, but I decided to split it, as the chapter would have grown too long.

This particular storyline grew unexpectedly while I was writing the main story – I never intended to work it out in such a detailed way, but, well, the guys wanted the loose ends of their relationship tied, and who am I to refuse my own characters?

* * *

**CHAPTER 11: CHOICES AND CHANCES**

**Rigel VI, late 2970**

Mondral signed the new contract – not with the official seal of the clan, nor with his own signature, but with the little-used personal code of Madame Vithra's. The Tellarite businessman grunted contently and left, without wasting his time with such irrelevant pleasantries as thanking him or even saying good-bye. But that was fine with Mondral. The newly sealed contract, that resulted in the transfer of a considerable amount of money, not to the clan's shared account, but to Madame's personal one, also meant that a fat percentage went to his own account as well. That was the advantage of making business with Tellarites: they firmly believed in bribing the mediator generously.

This wasn't the first time that Mondral had been sent off-world to take care of some business fro Madame. Nor was it unusual that he had to act discretely, so that Madame's senior spouses would not take notice of her little financial transactions. Madame had been loosening the financial lash Bonkuyo and the others held her on slowly, carefully, for quite some time. With Mondral's help, she had been building her own contacts patiently, and as she actually did have a keen sense for business – not to mention the best sources to lean on – so far she had been successful.

Fortunately, she also had showed remarkable restraint, cleverly hiding her success from the senior spouses, and waiting for the right chance to make the really big money that would grant her true independence. The fact that the Orion Syndicate was still recovering from the blow dealt to them last year by Starfleet Intelligence, intensified business activity in the entire Rigel system, giving smaller firms and consortiums the much-needed chance to expand. And Madame was a person who always used her chances.

Mondral was working on his own financial interests just as carefully as Madame herself. He, too, saw the opportunity of gaining some extra money – although on a much smaller scale – so that he's be able to buy himself free from Bonkuyo's clutches earlier, and seized it. He'd managed to persuade Madame to make Rigel VI the centre of her business activity, with the argument that the local banks didn't ask many questions when one opened an account, as long as one was willing to place one's money there.

Which was very true. Mondral only neglected to mention that the same was true for his own account. Madame probably wouldn't have appreciated his attempts to regain his freedom – he was much too valuable for the clan in general and for her in particular. And though Mondral didn't intend to remain with her longer than necessary, saying so would have been a grave error. So he remained silent.

The other reason for choosing Rigel VI was that he still had good contacts here, established during his college years. Originally, they served the purpose to gain information, as Mondral was never particularly interested in business. But now the contacts enabled him to find the wealthiest local businessmen, usually Tellarites, which again ensured the nice percentages he got by every successfully sealed deal.

He was considered a 'sensible' negotiating partner among Tellarites – meaning that he could be bribed easily, when the sum was high enough – and they began to point him out to their own associates. Within a year, he'd become an inside tip for Tellarites on Rigel VI, and he began to think about expanding his influence to the other Rigel colonies.

The whole thing wasn't entirely harmless of course. Madame could have faced dire consequences, had the senior spouses – already irate enough by the fact that they'd been unable to find Ishul within the year and thus had to release him from the marriage contract in his absence – discovered her little domestic revolt for financial independence. And when Madame fell, Mondral would fall with her.

On the other hand, Madame could have discovered her champion's similar activities as well, but Mondral wasn't worried too much about that. Sure, there would be the one or other scene in private – Madame's hissing fits were anything but pleasant – but he was much stronger than her, so that she wouldn't be able to do any serious bodily harm. And she couldn't afford to reveal his activities to the senior spouses. Not without revealing her own, that is.

Yes, having Madame in his hands did have its advantages. Not to mention the stimulating effect a little danger always had on Mondral.

The regular visits on Rigel VI were an added bonus for him. Having grown up in the rural poverty of the homeworld, he had fallen in love with this world as soon as he entered college. He loved worlds that pulsated with life, that were as different from the homeworld as possible. And Rigel VI was the quintessence of everything he loved in those worlds.

It was a major trade centre, with a dense population in the urban area – humans tended to create a crowd wherever they went – and large, amazing natural parks outside the cities. Tellarites had their settlements in the mediterranean area, Andorians on the outskirts of the deserts. Vulcans had built a city in the middle of the largest desert and had a flourishing industry of hand-made glassware, making logical use of the abundance of raw material around their homes. Rigelians lived in small, pleasant villages, one clan in one settlement, and humans, humans were everywhere. Especially on the beaches.

Had he more time, Mondral would have considered indulging in the popular human sport of surfing, which he had learned during his college years. It was great fun, but beyond that, it also demanded excellent balance and good reflexes, both things that he needed by his daily work. Needless to say that he was rather good at surfing, and as he never tried it at home, not knowing how his employers would react to it, he'd missed it lately.

But this time he only had the one night to spare – negotiating with Tellarites, although profitable, was also rather time-consuming – so he went to watch one of the open-air performances instead, in a small town near the capital. It was one of the many university towns, dedicated to art and science. Mondral wasn't exactly a scholar, nor wanted he to become one, but he liked music, and the chance to see a genuine Vulcan opera attracted him.

To be accurate, it was less than an opera and more a ballet performance with living music and singing in the background – a uniquely Vulcan art form. Mondral had known the music already – one of his room-mates at college, a Vulcan with artistic tendencies, used to be very fond of this particular piece – but he'd never seen a living performance before, and was very curious what it would be like.

There were no records of the performance itself, as it was – according to his former room-mate – never the same, the dancers creating the pattern every time anew, depending on the inspiration given by the complexity of the music and the performance of the musicians and singers. Knowing how much everything else in Vulcan life was nailed down by millennia-old rules that were followed religiously, this sounded quite unbelievable. But Mondral didn't even try to understand the contradictions of the Vulcan mindset anymore. For a race devoted to logic, they could be fairly puzzling sometimes.

The open-air theatre belonged to a local art school and contained an oval dance floor of shimmering granite, around which the audience was seated on terraced galleries. The musicians, clad in long, old-fashioned dark robes, played on ancient, exotic instruments. They played by heart and didn't even seem to realize the audience at all. The same was true for the singers, who, clad in white, framed the dance floor like graceful statues. Their voices rose above the music without the help of any electronic devices and seemingly without effort, carried by the excellent acoustics of the place alone.

The dancers themselves whirled across the floor in a choreography so complex that Mondral wondered how could so many people move in such a relatively small place so quickly, without crashing into each other. They formed circles and other geometric patterns, clapped their hands in the rhythm of the intense, almost sensual melody, swaying like windswept fern, their gauze-like robes and the long, open hair of the female dancers all but flying in the warm autumn breeze. The sight was both otherworldly and intensely erotic at the same time, although the faces of the dancers were serene, unmoved, emanating an almost meditative peace.

And yet, both the sight and the music touched something in Mondral very deeply, and he felt a familiar ache in his belly. It had been too long since he'd experienced anything but the obligatory services in Madame's bed and the occasional visit by one or the other brothel boy.

During the performance, he repeatedly had the feeling that someone was watching him. He looked around a few times, but it wasn't until near the end of the last act that he discovered the source of that feeling. It was a young man, sitting on a nearby balcony. A slim blond with short, curly hair, in the company of two Rigelian women and a squat human male. Mondral couldn't see him well, as he was sitting in the background, half-hidden by his companions, but some nagging feeling of familiarity wouldn't leave him alone.

Finally, as the act ended and the applause ceased, he left his place and paved his way through the still celebrating audience to that balcony. That earned him a few annoyed looks, but he didn't care. He needed to know who this young man was… and why was he watching him so intently.

The quartet was about to leave the theatre when he reached them. Now he could see the fine, pretty face framed by those blond locks, and though the colours were all wrong, that was a face he'd recognize anywhere.

"Ishul!" he called out instinctively.

The blue-eyed blond stiffened for a moment. One of the women, a squat, dark haired, not very young person, laid an encouraging hand on his forearm. He swallowed nervously, turned back – and broke into a delighted smile.

"Mondral!" he said, and now the champion could recognize his voice as well, although it was less soft, less hesitant now than it used to be. Ishul apparently had gained a great deal of confidence during their year apart. But he seemed genuinely happy to see Mondral, and that, at least, was encouraging, despite his first reaction.

"Give us a moment, please," he said to the women; the human male was gone already. The younger woman, a thin, raven-haired one with a shrew-like face and very bright eyes, cocked her head in doubt.

"Are you sure? Should we not wait for you?"

Ishul smiled. "I'm sure. Don't worry. The dormitory is just a few hundred meters from here. I'll be fine."

The older woman nodded, her dark, warning eyes never leaving Mondral's face. "Remember, you don't have any obligations left towards your former clan," she said in her slightly rough voice. "Not anymore."

"I'm aware of that, Mistress B'Atha," Ishul answered patiently. The woman, apparently the senior wife of a clan, by the title of her, kissed him on one cheek and left them alone.

"Who were they?" Mondral asked, stomping back his jealousy ruthlessly. He'd been starving for the boy, and seeing him touched by some women angered him. Ishul smiled again.

"They are family," he said simply. Mondral felt his heart grow cold.

"You remarried?" He never contemplated that possibility.

Ishul shook his head. "No… although I do have a standing invitation, and might even accept it, in time. But not yet. First, I want to live a little, as other people do. People who were lucky enough to be born somewhere else than Rigel V."

"So, what do you want to do with this new life of yours?" Mondral asked, feeling the distance between them growing by the minute.

"I got accepted at the art college here," Ishul nodded towards a nearby building. "Mistress B'Atha discovered my talent for painting. When I finish college, I can even try to get to the Andorian Academy of Art. My teachers here say I do have the talent. But I need to learn the techniques properly first."

"Is this… hair part of being an artist," Mondral asked. He missed the long, silky dark locks, and what happened to the boy's eyes? Ishul used to have the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen.

"No," Ishul said seriously, "that was part of my disguise. I've just stopped the colour-altering treatment a few weeks ago. It'll take some time till I return to my old looks."

"That's a relief," Mondral said. "Not that you weren't pretty enough like this, too, but there isn't any reason to keep hiding your true beauty any longer. You're safe now."

"Officially, I am," Ishul agreed. "That doesn't mean that my former spouses won't try to get back to me, though. That's why Mistress B'Atha and Sealon are being a bit overprotective."

"They are right, I guess," Mondral admitted grudgingly. "Perhaps it's better you lie low for a while yet, little one."

Ishul smiled, but there was slight reproach in his tone when he answered.

"I'm not a child, Mondral, and in the last year, I've learned to be a lot more than just pretty. As I needed to hide, I had a lot of time on my hands to catch up my education. And I have firm plans for my future, now that I actually do have one."

"I see," Mondral said flatly. "Do I still have any place in those grand plans of yours?"

"I don't know," Ishul replied honestly. "You were the first person who's ever truly cared for me, and I'll never forget that."

"But," Mondral supported, dreading what was about to come.

"But I've come to realize that I deserve better than being anyone's bed toy… even yours," Ishul said bluntly.

That stung, but Mondral had to admit that the boy – the young _man_ – was absolutely right.

"You've grown up," he said. Ishul nodded.

"I have… and I'm grateful for the chance. I intend to use it, too. It's not that I don't care for you anymore…"

"You do?"

"Of course I do. But I just don't know if we have a chance to rebuild whatever was between us on new basics – or if you want to do it at all. No," he said, seeing that Mondral was about to say something, "don't answer me yet. I know you hoped that once I'm free of my former clan we'd continue as we used to be. But I can't become that meek little creature again. Not even for you."

"I see," Mondral said after a long silence. "So, what are we doing now?"

"You can come to the dorm with me," Ishul offered with a smile that was positively sultry. "Term has just begun, and my room-mate won't arrive before the day after tomorrow. I've got a perfectly comfortable bed in my room – we could put it to good use."

* * *

That wasn't an offer Mondral could have refused, and so they walked through the park from the theatre to the art students' dorm. It was a nice, warm night, both moons of Rigel VI high upon the sky, and they stopped several times to kiss and touch each other. Mondral felt like an adolescent all over again but didn't really mind it.

"You filled out nicely," he said appreciatively. "It looks good on you."

"Physical work in the garden and lots of exercise," Ishul murmured, nibbling on his earlobe. "I had to compensate for the lack of sex during separation year somehow." He rubbed himself against Mondral shamelessly. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," Mondral slid a hand down Ishul's back. Ishul shivered at the touch.

"Careful!" he warned. "I don't want too lose it on the street. Hold back, just a little longer. We're almost there."

Mondral reluctantly withdrew his hand and followed the young man into the elegant, terraced building. Ishul's room was a large and surprisingly airy one, up on the third floor, directly under the flat roof. It was sparsely furnished, but cluttered with all sorts of artistic items, and in one corner stand a canvas with the half-finished image of a male torso on it. The model's face was obscured by a blur of colour, his nudity veiled by a strategically draped cloth, but Mondral believed to recognize it.

"Your work?" he asked quietly; the image, indeed, showed talent, though the execution was still somewhat rough.

Ishul nodded and smiled. "As I said, I missed you."

"You've got an excellent memory," Mondral studied the picture some more. "I almost forget that scar on my left side myself."

"I remember telling me the story of it," Ishul walked over to the window that offered a beautiful look at the beech beyond the park, and closed the curtain for more privacy. "I started painting this a few months ago, when I missed you most."

He turned back, looked at his once and again lover and smiled again, a little hesitantly.

"How do you want me?" he asked. There was a hint of the old submission in his low voice again, and that filled Mondral with nearly absurd satisfaction. It seemed that – despite all changes – Ishul was still _his_.

"Preferably naked," he said with a smirk, and to his delight, Ishul blushed that lovely shade of green again and began to remove his clothes. Mondral followed suit, his mind already going over the possibilities.

Their first coupling was over way too soon, and Mondral looked at his young lover in apology. "Did I hurt you?"

"It's not so bad," Ishul gave him a strangely compassionate smile. "I needed it, too. Let's go to bed, so that you can make it up to me, eh?"

Mondral found that a good idea, and he spent the next hour or so with spoiling Ishul thoroughly. Not that playing with that flawless young body would have been a hardness… and Ishul proved as sensitive as ever. But he was less passive than he used to be, which was a pleasant surprise.

Mondral took him another two times in that night, and even offered him to switch, for the first time ever. Ishul was most pleased by the offer, but refused it nevertheless.

"It means a lot to me that you offered at all," the young man said, "but I honestly don't desire to switch. I'm perfectly content with the way things are between us. Somehow, it wouldn't feel _right_, the other way round," he laughed quietly. "I've accepted your dominance, and I enjoy it very much."

"But not enough for commitment – right?" Mondral asked.

"I don't think it would work," Ishul replied soberly. "I can't return to the homeworld, for obvious reasons, nor do I want to see that backward planet again, ever. And you can't come and live with me here. Marriage is meant to be something stable, something permanent and steady – I can't see how we could establish that. Not yet, not for a long time coming."

"True enough," Mondral admitted. He couldn't break his contract to the clan, and it'll take years yet before he would be able to buy himself free. „But you'll need the protection of a family, little one. Now, that I can't protect you, more than ever."

Ishul nodded. "I know. That's why I'm considering marrying into my host family. They have several off-worldlers in the clan and a rather open mind. I'd be able to keep my freedom among them. They don't force their junior spouses to service them. And I really like Sealon."

"You and a woman?" Mondral shook his head in disbelief. "Poor Spiria, if she knew… Which one is Sealon? The little rat-faced one with the bright eyes?"

"She might not be a beauty," Ishul shrugged, "but she's about my age, and she's very funny. I'd like to have children somewhen. I never thought I would, but I do, actually, now that I've seen what family life is supposed to be."

"Do you love them… any of them?" Mondral asked. Ishul shook his head.

"No. But I like them and respect them."

"Do you love _me_?" Mondral asked. Ishul didn't answer at once.

"I'm not sure," he finally said. "I do care for you – but I don't want to spend my life alone, in the hope that you might somehow find a way out of your contract. Do _you_ love _me_?"

"I might," Mondral said thoughtfully. "I'm not entirely sure what people understand when they speak about love, but I do know that I'm falling for you. I've been for quite some time."

Ishul gave him that sympathetic smile again, and Mondral had the strange impression as if their roles had been switched somehow. As if Ishul were the mature adult now. And he, albeit twice Ishul's age, the vulnerable child.

"I'm not cutting you off," the young man said. "Is I said, I still care for you very much, and… and I enjoy what we do together. I can't give you a comm code. I still live under a false name here, and it would be… unfortunate, if my former clan found me, before I have the protection of a new one. But I'll give you the comm code of my host family. Call them when you get away from Madame for a while, and we'll arrange something." He gave Mondral a long, lingering kiss. "I don't want to lose you. But we have to be realistic."

"True enough," Mondral agreed with a sigh. Then he rolled the younger man under him again with one smooth move. "One last time?"

"Are you up to it?" Ishul's eyes glittered in fey amusement.

Mondral snorted. "I'm not an old man yet, pretty one. I'm 'up to it' whenever I can have you under me."

Ishul grinned at him ferally. "Prove it!"

"Your wish is my command," Mondral pounced, and articulate conversation ceased from that moment on.

TBC


	12. Epilogue

**MISSIONTO DALETH IV**

**by Soledad**

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

The Epilogue takes place nearly two years after the actual story, also late in the year 2271. Chronologically, it ties in immediately after the first story of the "Lost Years" series, the one titled "The Joy Machine". Danielle DuMolin is a character from that story. Dr. Lawton (here only mentioned) is the former Yeoman Tina Lawton from the first season TOS-episode "The Enemy Within".

* * *

**EPILOGUE **

Elba II was quite different from the unfriendly, life-threatening world it had been during the visit of Captain Kirk's _Enterprise_, two years earlier. Although the atmosphere of the small planet – one of the same size as Mars Solis – was still poisonous, and so life was only possible under sealed domes, terraforming had already begun. The first signs of life had already stirred in the small oceans, and Donald Cory, governor of the colony and leader of the rehab facility that was now openly acknowledged as a psychiatric hospital was working with youthful energy on the next steps of this enormous task.

Lieutenant Burt had met Governor Cory several times and found him a very likeable man. The round-faced, middle-aged Asian seemed genuinely concerned about his patients. At the moment, they had an unusually big crowd, aside from the usual Starfleet Intelligence and Security officers who needed rehab treatment after some dangerous, covert mission – which happened more often than people would think. Additionally those patients, there were dozens of former addicts from Thimsel, who still needed some rehab therapy.

One of them, a gentle-faced blond woman, came up to Burt and smiled at him hesitantly.

"Hello… I'm Danielle DuMolin, one of the voluntary helpers here," she had a nice French accent, rolling her "r"s rather pleasantly. "Can I help you?"

"Lieutenant Gregory Burt," the Centaurian nodded. "I'm looking for Commander Jonathan Drake. We were told that he'd be released today."

"Just a moment," Ms DuMolin walked over to the computer terminal and looked up the name. "Ah oui, that's correct. Can you wait here in the foyer for a minute? I'll call him. Dr. Lawton, his doctor is already working on his release papers."

Burt nodded again and prepared himself for a lengthy wait. In his experience, hospitals were sluggish when it came to paperwork. To his surprise, however, some ten minutes later he could already see Jon running down the steps lightly, with his usual grace, in a fresh and crisp new uniform, wearing the rank strips of a full commander. He had his hair again, barely longer than usually, but surprisingly, also a neatly trimmed, full beard, and his eyes, now back to their natural coffee brown colour, were blessedly clear again.

"Greg!" he grinned happily and greeted his friend with a spontaneous hug. Burt stiffened for a moment, the gesture waking memories he didn't necessarily want to relive right now. But he overcame his momentary resistance for Jon's sake, who seemed genuinely happy to see him.

"You look good, Jon," was all he said, returning the hug briefly. It was the understatement of the year. With the beard that gave his boyish face a dashing manliness, Jon looked positively gorgeous.

"I _feel_ good," Jon assured him. "Those were long years, despite the ungodly amount of work Dad heaped upon my head. Sometimes I thought I'd go crazy, so bad were the withdrawal symptoms, but in the end, it was worth the torture. I'm clean."

"Clean of _kireshet_… but what about the other thing?" Burt asked seriously. Jon's smile faded a little.

"You mean whether I am still a crazed sex junkie or not?" he asked back, with a good portion of self-irony. Burt nodded, and Jon shrugged. "Seems that I'm not. The urge is gone… though I still do find the ladies most enticing."

"That's comforting to hear," Burt replied dryly, and Jon regretted the joke at once.

"Oh God, Greg, I'm sorry! It was really tasteless of me… after all that you've done for me!"

Burt raised a finger to interrupt his self-accusations.

"I did what had to be done, Jon," he said. "What each of us would have done. I was just the best qualified person for the job, that's all."

"No, that's not all, and we both know it," Jon said grimly. "That's why we have to talk."

"About what?" Burt shrugged. Jon rolled his eyes.

"Well, what about us? About what comes now? About he future? Whatever."

"It's all taken care of," Burt replied calmly.

Jon raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Really? Says who?"

Burt nodded. "Really, Jon. I've requested a transfer to the Romulan Neutral Zone. It's been granted. I'll leave in two days."

Jon looked stricken. "A transfer? Why?"

"You have to ask?" Burt laughed mirthlessly. Jon sighed.

"Nah. It's because of me, isn't it?"

"Of course," Burt said. "It's better so, Jon, believe me. I'm an independent agent anyway, and since your whole unit knows what happened… it'd be awkward for everyone."

"That's true," Jon admitted, "but I hoped we could find a way to deal with it. We are a family, after all."

"You and the others are a family," Burt corrected quietly. "I just work with your people time and again."

"But you are my friend," Jon said, a little dispirited. "I'd hate to lose you."

"You won't lose me as a friend," Burt promised. "We just won't work together for a while. I've been on missions while you were here, too, after all. And I'm still here, am I not?"

"For a while?" Jon repeated. "So you'd consider working with us again, right?"

Burt shrugged and smiled again. "Whenever a case demands. That has always been our priority, hasn't it? Otherwise we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with."

"True again," Jon sighed. "I still wish you wouldn't go. We worked well together."

"I know," Burt said. "And if I wouldn't… if I weren't…"

"If you weren't in love with me," Jon supplied. "Don't be afraid to say it, Greg."

"If I weren't in love with you," Burt nodded again. "It would still be awkward… but we might be able to deal with what happened. But not so. Not now, that you know about it. Not for a while."

"We… we could try to…" Jon trailed off, uncertainly, and Burt shook his head at once.

"Oh, no, Jon. It won't work. You've never been interested, and this is not the right time for experiments. You've barely recovered from your addiction… and you don't owe me anything. Especially not something you don't really want. No, I think separation would be the best for both of us – and for the entire unit."

"Perhaps," Jon admitted reluctantly. After a while, he looked at his friend again and smiled. "The Romulan Neutral Zone, eh?"

"It matches my profile," Burt said with a shrug. "I speak several Romulan dialects, have good contacts in the Empire… I'll be a most useful agent there."

"Just be careful," Jon warned.

"You, too," Burt gave him a brief hug, not one between two lovers but that of two fellow soldiers. "We'll see us again. But I have to go now. Blessings, my friend."

"Blessings," Jon repeated the traditional Centaurian greeting, but Burt was already out of the door.

"I thought your friend came to take you home," Danielle DuMolin said with a frown. She had just come back from Director Cory's office and was surprised to find Jon alone. Jon shook his head.

"Nah, he just came to say his farewells. He's going on a long mission, and it seems we won't be seeing much of each other any time, soon."

"That's sad," Danielle said softly. "He must be a very good friend of yours, travelling all the way, just to say good-bye personally, instead of a subspace message."

"We served together for a long time," Jon answered evasively. "He saved my life more than once."

"I see," Danielle paused. She was a very perceptive woman, and Jon knew she sensed that there was more. But to his surprise she didn't push the issue as many other people would have done. "How are you going to get out of here then?" was all she asked.

Jon looked at the main entrance and smiled, seeing the tall, elegantly greying, dark-skinned man, wearing the black dress uniform of Starfleet Intelligence, entering the foyer.

"I think my escort has just arrived," he said.

Danielle eyed the newcomer curiously, recognizing the golden rank insignia of a Starfleet Commodore.

"Is that your father?" she asked, noticing the resemblance, slight as it might be.

"In his spare time," Jon grinned wryly. "Usually, though, he is my boss."

But Commodore Didier Drake Reed seemed to be in one of his rare paternal moods today. He crossed the foyer with a few long strides, spotting his firstborn among all those civilians, and patted Jon on the shoulder with genuine affection.

"It's good to see you, son. How are you doing?"

Jon shrugged. "I'm fine, Dad. Will be even better, once I left this place. No offence to the docs, they were great, but you know how much I hate hospitals."

His father nodded, seizing him with narrowed eyes. "I like the beard," he decided. "By the way, was it Greg Burt I've just seen leaving for the shuttle port?"

"He came to say good-bye," Jon said. "I'm sorry to see him go, but under the circumstances, it's probably the best."

"You are right," his father agreed. "We discussed the issue with him, the Admiral and I, and came to the same conclusion. So. Do you have your release papers already?"

"Dr. Lawson is preparing them right now. It won't take but a few minutes."

"I hope so, because we have to catch the _Astral Queen_, and she's leaving orbit within the hour."

"The _Astral Queen_?" Jon looked at his father in surprise. "I thought you'd come with a courier yacht."

The commodore shrugged. "I'm not officially here. I just came to take my son home. Besides, Captain Daily is always great fun to travel with... he and that Andorian XO of his. Are you packed, son?"

"Since yesterday."

"Well, then let's get your papers and go home, shall we?"

The End -


End file.
